The white rose of Chayleigh

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Seite 267 - Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again. Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others...
Seite 263 - One word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it. One hope is too like despair For prudence to smother, And pity from thee more dear Than that from another. I can give not what men call love, But wilt thou accept not 10 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 15 From the sphere of our sorrow?
Seite 261 - Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way, And the billows of cloud that around thee roll Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day, Where Hell and Heaven shall leave thee free To the universe of destiny.
Seite 152 - There is not a horse in England, able and willing to work, but has due food and lodging ; and goes about sleek-coated, satisfied in heart. And you say, It is impossible. Brothers, I answer, if for you it be impossible, what is to become of you ? It is impossible for us to believe it to be impossible. The human brain, looking at these sleek English horses, refuses to believe in such impossibility for English men.
Seite 267 - Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without but worn and grey beneath. O, could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene ! As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So midst the withered waste of life those tears would flow to me.
Seite 220 - ... would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
Seite 260 - First our pleasures die — and then Our hopes, and then our fears — and when These are dead, the debt is due, Dust claims dust— and we die too.
Seite 220 - Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think, I am easier to be played on than a pipe...
Seite 293 - ELAINE the fair, Elaine the lovable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the east Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot; Which first she placed where morning's earliest ray Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam; Then fearing rust or soilure...
Seite 271 - ... angularity, by crushing the upper part of the female body. In such matters nearly all people conform. Our brother man is seldom so bitter against us, as when we refuse to adopt at once his notions of the infinite. . But even religious dissent were less dangerous and more respectable than dissent in dress. If you want to see what men will do in the way of conformity, take a European hat for your subject of meditation. I dare say there are twenty-two millions of people at this minute, each wearing...

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