. Perfect pearls of poetry and prose; the most unique, touching, inspiring and beautiful literary . And grief may bide an evening joy shall come with early light. And thou, who, oer thj friends low bier,Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphereWill give him to thy arms again. Nor let the good mans trust life its common gifts den)^— Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,And spurned of men, he goes to die. For God hath marked each sorrowing day. And numbered every secret heavens long ago of bliss shall pay For all hi
. Perfect pearls of poetry and prose; the most unique, touching, inspiring and beautiful literary . And grief may bide an evening joy shall come with early light. And thou, who, oer thj friends low bier,Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphereWill give him to thy arms again. Nor let the good mans trust life its common gifts den)^— Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,And spurned of men, he goes to die. For God hath marked each sorrowing day. And numbered every secret heavens long ago of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here. TO NIGHT PEllCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. ^^^VIFTLY walk over tho wostcrn wave, |j^ S[.irit of Night! lilt of tho misty ca-stern all the long and lone daylight,Tlion weavest dreams of joy and fear,Which mako theo terriblo and dear,—Swift bfl thy flight 1 J Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Star-inwrought!Blind with thy hair tho eyes of day,Kiss her until she 1)0 wearied out,Tlion wander o<!r city, and sea, luid ,Touching all witli thiiin opiate wand — Como, long-sought!. >!-- SNOW-FLAK EB. 243 When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee!When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on floor and tree,And the weary Day turned to his , like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee! Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me ?Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmured like a noontide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side ?Wouldst thou me ?—and I replied,No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead. Soon, too soon,—Sleep will come when thou art fled;Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, beloved Night—Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon! BURIED TO-DAY.
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Keywords: ., bo, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, booksubjectenglishliterature
