. Blood for blood; a legend of the "big elm tree,". 50 Sweet child, the fragrance of thy breathBrings color to the faded cheek. For thee The violets bloom, and song birds sing—Sing, ere you go, the song of Hope for me. Dost hear the joyful call of those Who need the touches of my hand ?—They call, but not impatiently—O Time, I sing at thy command: Theres a morrow all bright,There is fruit without blight,And the mocking-bird sings her sweet song in the desert has more than one fountain, O Time—The sunshine encircles the mountain sublime,And He who pilots the stars through the skyHears
. Blood for blood; a legend of the "big elm tree,". 50 Sweet child, the fragrance of thy breathBrings color to the faded cheek. For thee The violets bloom, and song birds sing—Sing, ere you go, the song of Hope for me. Dost hear the joyful call of those Who need the touches of my hand ?—They call, but not impatiently—O Time, I sing at thy command: Theres a morrow all bright,There is fruit without blight,And the mocking-bird sings her sweet song in the desert has more than one fountain, O Time—The sunshine encircles the mountain sublime,And He who pilots the stars through the skyHears the call of the kid and the young ravenscry. An old story Ive readOf a prophet who said:Theres a path which the lions whelp never may tread;Theres a highway unseen by the eagles strong eye,And a ladder that leads from the earth to the sky. 51. 52 0 Weaver, thy shuttle is burnished with gold,And the fabric thou weavest shall never grow old. O Time, I must goTo the regions of snow,And to lands where the citron and pomegranate grow—To islands that lie in the calm of the sea,Where the oriole sings in the juniper tree. 1 leave thee, O Time, in thy temple of light,Where there are no shadows, and never comes night. There are many who call in the sheen of the dayOn the white-bearded Weaver who welcomes their stay;They bear aloft banners that guidon lifes trail,And point to the headlands beyond the green walk upon roses, in trouble they sing,And plunder the bee without feeling its sting. In his lamp-lighted loft or his shadowless hall Time sits at his loom and weaves for us all.— For pilgrims who sit by the moaning sea, And look for lost ships despondingly, He weaves the dream of a bygone day, When the dreamers ships sailed out of the bay— 53 Sailed over the bar and out in the sea, Whose shores are the shores of eter
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookidbloodforbloo, bookyear1906
