. Blood for blood; a legend of the "big elm tree,". 42 Take thou my thin and trembling hand,And lead me to the better land. O Time, along the ocean shores Lie broken spars and useless oars, And ships, full manned, in depths profound, Eternal anchorage have found. Fame whispers to the listening ear, And crowds are crowding crowds to hear; While mammon leads the chariot race, The idle fill the market place. O Time, the weary, weary plod—The rocky road, the smiting rod—The bruised feet, the sandals torn,The yoke too heavy to be borne;I scarcely see the stars above—I scarcely see thy shuttle move—
. Blood for blood; a legend of the "big elm tree,". 42 Take thou my thin and trembling hand,And lead me to the better land. O Time, along the ocean shores Lie broken spars and useless oars, And ships, full manned, in depths profound, Eternal anchorage have found. Fame whispers to the listening ear, And crowds are crowding crowds to hear; While mammon leads the chariot race, The idle fill the market place. O Time, the weary, weary plod—The rocky road, the smiting rod—The bruised feet, the sandals torn,The yoke too heavy to be borne;I scarcely see the stars above—I scarcely see thy shuttle move—Take thou my waiting hand in thine,And lead me up the steep incline. O Time, thy lamp burns low, and nightIs on the verge of day. LightMellows all the eastern sky,And ghosts and ghouls to caverns poppy puts thy owl to sleep,And thou canst scarce thy vigils keep. 43. 44 O Time, thy lamp is flickering low—Thy shuttle seems to stop—I go. There are many who call when the shadows lieOn the green of the hills and the blue of the sky—When the wing of the bat stirs the air of the cave,And the wolf is alert and the cougar is these, Time ever is weaving at nightSable ribbons of life, with a lamp for a light. Hope was the name of a beautiful girl,With a placid brow and a wealth of curl,Who called on Time at the noon of day,While he sat in his temple, weaving pink of her cheek was the blush of the morn,When the hunter goes forth with his hound and his horn;The red of her lips was the red of the sky,When day reclines on his couches to die;And the dimple that nestled at ease in her chinWas the mark that was left when hope entered stood in Times presence familiarly,And said: O Weaver, a message for thee—The Weaver held his shuttle and smiled,And said: Speak on, my beautiful child. O Time, thou speakest well to sayMy child/ for
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookidbloodforbloo, bookyear1906
