. A poet's cabinet, being passages, mainly poetical . ot breath of a coming storm That clangd his thunder-bugle through the west. When once the rude gust hit the moon, it tipt— Or so it seemd—and with a deafening peal It spilt one blinding flash. Then, where this lit, Just in the path before me gleamd a knife! Held oer a form of white! To see the thing I screamd aloud. It seemd a ghost! Haydn, xxxi. MORAL EQUAL My soul demands in one whom I obeyA moral equal, at the least. Columbus, I., 3. MORBID They call me morbid— if they meanI hate the wrong, wherever seen;And make supreme my own ideal;And
. A poet's cabinet, being passages, mainly poetical . ot breath of a coming storm That clangd his thunder-bugle through the west. When once the rude gust hit the moon, it tipt— Or so it seemd—and with a deafening peal It spilt one blinding flash. Then, where this lit, Just in the path before me gleamd a knife! Held oer a form of white! To see the thing I screamd aloud. It seemd a ghost! Haydn, xxxi. MORAL EQUAL My soul demands in one whom I obeyA moral equal, at the least. Columbus, I., 3. MORBID They call me morbid— if they meanI hate the wrong, wherever seen;And make supreme my own ideal;And grieve to find it not made real;I hail the name. No titles goFrom earth to bias heaven, I normal moods may sink and swellAt one with tides that drift to hell. A Life in Song: Doubting, ix. MOTHER How oft in the night, mid the winds wild sweepThrough the leaf-hung trees, or the spray-flung deep,My eye sees not, but a light will gleamLike an angel-face in an angel-dream; And back through the years My hushd soul hearsThe call of a tone. With cravings paleFor church and stole and sermons of my own. See page 301. SELECTED QUOTATIONS 257 Like the spirits own;And I feel the pressOf a lost caress, And of lips that bearBoth a kiss and a prayerFor my cheeks that glow as my pulses , is it a wonder my eye should fill?I feel, whatever my life may be,That one in the past had love for me;When, dear as a boon from a realm of the soul was pressdTo my mothers breast. Idem, Loving, vi. MOTHERHOOD She hints—not so?—that truest womanhoodIs maidenhood?—By Eve and Mary, false!—The mother lives the model of her sex,And not the maid. Haydn, XLII. The tender plant that springs to the air From the small frail urn of youthIs trained, if at all, by a womans care For the flowering and fruitage of home is an Eden that owns an EveWhose deeds make all life joy or grieve. Love and Life, vn. MOTHS VS. WORMS More blest the short-lived moths that fly to flameSt
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