Poems

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1887 - 368 pages
 

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Page 18 - I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; He sings the song, but it pleases not now ; For I did not bring home the river and sky: He sang to my ear — they sang to my eye.
Page 47 - O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome; And when I am stretched beneath the pines, Where the evening star so holy shines, I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, At the sophist schools and the learned clan ; For what are they all, in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet?
Page 196 - They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. The strong gods pine for my abode, And pine in vain the sacred Seven; But thou, meek lover of the good! Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
Page 269 - CHARACTER The sun set; but set not his hope: Stars rose; his faith was earlier up: Fixed on the enormous galaxy, Deeper and older seemed his eye: And matched his sufferance sublime The taciturnity of time. He spoke, and words more soft than rain Brought the Age of Gold again: His action won such reverence sweet, As hid all measure of the feat...
Page 20 - Knowst thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves and feathers from her breast ? Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual cell ? Or how the sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads ? Such and so grew these holy piles, While love and terror laid the tiles.
Page 52 - ... passed. Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher ! Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep ; Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. BERRYING. 'MAY be true what I had heard, — Earth 'sa howling wilderness, Truculent with fraud and force,' Said...
Page 22 - In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the fathers wise, The Book itself before me lies, Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. His words are music in my ear, I see his cowled portrait dear; And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop...
Page 44 - Tis mine, my children's and my name's. How sweet the west wind sounds in my own trees! How graceful climb those shadows on my hill! I fancy these pure waters and the flags Know me, as does my dog: we sympathize; And, I affirm, my actions smack of the soil.
Page 150 - And, chiefest prize, found I true liberty In the glad home plain-dealing Nature gave. The polite found me impolite ; the great Would mortify me, but in vain ; for still I am a willow of the wilderness, Loving the wind that bent me.
Page 98 - Olympian bards who sung Divine ideas below, Which always find us young, And always keep us so.

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