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Seite 403 - See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart...
Seite 132 - WHENE'ER a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low...
Seite 296 - Then give to the world the best you have, And the best will come back to you.
Seite 532 - As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth, Toward making, than repose on aught found made : So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor be afraid!
Seite 89 - I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather* looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given.
Seite 191 - AUTUMN FIRES IN the other gardens And all up the vale, From the autumn bonfires See the smoke trail! Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers, The red fire blazes, The gray smoke towers. Sing a song of seasons! Something bright in all! Flowers in the summer, Fires in the fall!
Seite 476 - Let this process go on for millions of years; and during each year on millions of individuals of many kinds; and may we not believe that a living optical instrument might thus be formed as superior to one of glass, as the works of the Creator are to those of man?
Seite 695 - Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. All are needed by each one; Nothing is fair or good alone.
Seite 264 - Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west — But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.