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Macmillan, 1878 - 370 pages
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Page 165 - And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the spindle drops from, her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window and looks at the sand, And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare...
Page 212 - Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.
Page 162 - Call once yet. In a voice that she will know: "Margaret ! Margaret !" Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear: Children's voices, wild with pain. Surely she will come again. Call her once and come away. This way, this way. "Mother dear, we cannot stay." The wild white horses foam and fret.
Page 183 - YES! in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know.
Page 277 - With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hours of light return, All we have built do we discern.
Page 163 - In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, Where the salt weed sways in the stream, Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever...
Page 297 - Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven : and we, Light half-believers of our casual creeds, Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd, Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, Whose vague resolves never have been fulfill'd: For whom each year we see Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; Who hesitate and falter life away, And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day...
Page 164 - She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear; "Margaret, hist ! Come quick, we are here ! Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone; The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.
Page 293 - And then they land, and thou art seen no more! — Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come To dance around the Fyfield...
Page 307 - What though the music of thy rustic flute Kept not for long its happy, country tone; Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note Of men contention-tost...

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