Ballads and Lyrics

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T.B. Mosher, 1902 - 31 Seiten

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Seite 412 - Bouillabaisse. Ah me ! ho'w quick the days are flitting ! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place — but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me — There's no one now to share my cup.
Seite 437 - THE play is done ; the curtain drops, Slow falling, to the prompter's bell : A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task ; And when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay.
Seite 346 - Under the arch of Life, where love and death, Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw Beauty enthroned ; and though her gaze struck awe, I drew it in as simply as my breath. Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath, The sky and sea bend on thee, — which can draw, By sea or sky or woman, to one law, The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath. This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise Thy voice and hand shake still, — long known to thee...
Seite 420 - CHRISTMAS is here ; Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we ; Little we fear Weather without, Sheltered about The Mahogany Tree. Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom ; Night-birds are we ; Here we carouse, Singing, like them, Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree.
Seite 437 - I'd say, the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page, The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age. I'd say, your woes were not less keen. Your hopes more vain than those of men; Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again. I'd say, we suffer and we strive. Not less nor more as men than boys; With grizzled beards at forty-five, As erst at twelve in corduroys.
Seite 358 - O born with me somewhere that men forget, And though in years of sight and sound unmet, Known for my soul's birth-partner well enough!
Seite 411 - I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days here met to dine ? Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty — I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
Seite 362 - Love's own breast, — Where round the secret of all spheres All angels lay their wings to rest, — How shall my soul stand rapt and awed, When, by the new birth borne abroad Throughout the music of the suns, It enters in her soul at once And knows the silence there for God ! Here with her face doth memory sit Meanwhile, and wait the day's decline, Till other eyes shall look from it, Eyes of the spirit's Palestine, Even than the old gaze tenderer : While hopes and aims long lost with her Stand round...
Seite 409 - s an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case ; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
Seite 410 - It is the lot of saint and sinner, So honest TERRE'S run his race." "What will Monsieur require for dinner ? " "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? " " Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; " Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ? " "Tell me a good one."— "That I * can, Sir : The Chambertin with yellow seal.

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