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A holy thing is sleep, on the worn spirit shed, and eyes that wake to weep.
A passion for flowers is, I really think, the only one which long sickness leaves untouched with its chilling influence.
Beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb.
Christ hath arisen! O mountain peaks, attest--
Witness, resounding glen and torrent wave!
The immortal courage in the human breast
Sprung from that victory--tell how oft the brave
To camp midst rock and cave,
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne,
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn!
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done;
The twilight star to heaven,
And the summer dew to flowers,
And rest to us is given
By the cool, soft evening hours.
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair; sorrow and death may not enter there.
Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!
They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.
Fill with Forgetfulness, fill high! Yet stay--
--'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way,
--Though the past haunt me as a spirit--yet I ask not to forget!
Gird your hearts with silent fortitude,
Suffering, yet hoping all things.
In thy heart there is a holy spot,
As 'mid the waste an isle of fount and palm,
Forever green!--the world's breath enters not,
The passion-tempest may not break its calm,
'Tis thine, all thine.
Joy! the lost one is restor'd!
Sunshine comes to hearth and board.
From the far-off countries old,
Of the diamond and red gold,
From the dusky archer bands,
Roamers of the desert sands,
He hath reach'd his home again.
Let me dream that love goes with us to the shore unknown.
Not where death hath power may love be blest.
O the things unseen, untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass hourly over that mysterious world, a mind to ruin struck by grief!
O! ask not, hope thou not too much
Of sympathy below;
Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow.
Oh! call my brother back to me!
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee--
Where is my brother gone?
Oh! how could fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?
Ivy! thy home is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er;
Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more.
Return, my thoughts, come home!
Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep?
And wherefore thus th' abyss of time o'ersweep
As birds the ocean foam?
Oh, no! return ye not!
Still farther, loftier let your soarings be!
Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free
O'er many a haunted spot.
Go, visit cell and shrine
Where woman has endur'd!--through wrong, through scorn,
Unshar'd by fame--yet silently upborne
By promptings more divine!
Strength is born in the deep silence of long-suffering hearts; not amidst joy.
The blue, deep, glorious heavens!--I lift mine eye,
And bless thee, O my God! that I have met
And own'd thine image in the majesty
Of their calm temple still! that never yet
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night!
I bless thee, O my God!
The Cottage Homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes;
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the ;birds beneath their eaves.
The opening and the folding flowers, that laugh to the summer's day.
The soul, the mother of deep fears,
Of high hopes infinite,
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears,
Of sleepless inner sight;
Lovely, but solemn, it arose,
Unfolding what no more might close.
-----There is a strength
Deep-bedded in our hearts, of which we reck
But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced
Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent
Before her gems are found?
There is in all this cold and hollow world no fount of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within a mother's heart.
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