The poetical works of N.P. Willis

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Routledge, 1850 - 260 Seiten
 

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Seite 26 - Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; And thy dark sin — oh ! I could drink the cup If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom...
Seite 141 - I can give not what men call love, But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not, The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow...
Seite 8 - Of a rich instrument, most strangely sweet, And the dull pulses of disease awoke, And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. " Helon, arise !" and he forgot his curse And rose and stood before him.
Seite 23 - Oh! when the heart is full, when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy Are such a very mockery, how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer...
Seite 71 - I whoop the smother'd call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall. I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go ; For the world at best is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low ; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way ; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay.
Seite 80 - Ay — though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst — Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first— Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, And taunt its mother till my brain went wild...
Seite 69 - Or, rising half in his rounded nest, He takes the time to smooth his breast, Then drops again, with filmed eyes, And sleeps as the last vibration dies. Sweet bird ! I would that I could be A hermit in the crowd like thee ! With wings to fly to wood and glen ! Thy lot, like mine, is cast .with men ; And daily, with unwilling feet, I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; But, unlike me, when day is o'er, Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar, Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, Canst smooth thy feathers...
Seite 7 - Depart ! and come not near the busy mart, the crowded city, more ; nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er; and stay thou not to hear voices that call thee in the way ; and fly from all who in the wilderness pass by.
Seite 80 - Ay, though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst — Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first, Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, And taunt its mother till my brain went wild — " All— I would do it all Sooner than die like a dull worm, to rot, Thrust foully into earth to be forgot, Oh heavens ! But I appal Your heart, old man : forgive.
Seite 79 - So! let him writhe! How long Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now! What a fine agony works upon his brow! Ha! gray-haired, and so strong! How fearfully he stifles that short moan! Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan! "'Pity

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