The Midland Monthly Magazine, Volumes 7-8

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J. Birgham, 1897

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Página 48 - Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life...
Página 358 - I often am much wearier than you think, This evening more than usual, and it seems As if — forgive now — should you let me sit Here by the window with your hand in mine And look a half -hour forth on Fiesole, Both of one mind, as married people use, Quietly, quietly the evening through, I might get up tomorrow to my work Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.
Página 44 - THE blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven ; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even ; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven.
Página 224 - For, don't you mark ? we're made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; And so they are better, painted — better to us, Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; God uses us to help each other so, Lending our minds out.
Página 228 - There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.
Página 121 - I WOULD have gone ; God bade me stay : I would have worked ; God bade me rest. He broke my will from day to day, He read my yearnings unexpressed, And said them nay. Now I would stay ; God bids me go : Now I would rest ; God bids me work. He breaks my heart tossed to and fro, My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk And vex it so. I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me ; Day after day I plod and moil : But, Christ my God, when will it be That I may let alone my toil And rest with Thee ? MARTYRS
Página 122 - Had such a lady spoken for herself, the portrait left us might have appeared more tender, if less dignified, than any drawn even by a devoted friend. Or had the Great Poetess of our own day and nation only been unhappy instead of happy, her circumstances would have invited her to bequeath to us, in lieu of the "Portuguese Sonnets," an inimitable "donna innominata" drawn not from fancy but from feeling, and worthy to occupy a niche beside Beatrice and Laura.
Página 85 - Within himself, from more to more; Or, crown'd with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter'd with the shocks of doom To shape and use.
Página 48 - I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.
Página 199 - For he that hath, to him shall be given: and he that hath not, from him shall be taken even that which he hath.

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