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Page 21 - He is made one with nature; there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder to the song of night's sweet bird: He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own; Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.
Page 21 - Spirit of Nature ! here, In this interminable wilderness Of worlds at whose immensity Even soaring fancy staggers, Here is thy fitting temple. Yet not the lightest leaf That quivers to the passing breeze Is less instinct with thee : Yet not the meanest worm That lurks in graves and fattens on the dead Less shares thy eternal breath. Spirit of Nature ! thou Imperishable as this glorious scene ! Here is thy fitting temple ! II.
Page 220 - Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus ; but use all gently ; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness.
Page 195 - STAY, stay at home, my heart, and rest ; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care ; To stay at home is best. •Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, they wander west, And are baffled and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt ; To stay at home is best.
Page 21 - Of outward shows, whose unexperienced shape New modes of passion to its frame may lend ; Life is its state of action, and the store Of all events is aggregated there That variegate the eternal universe ; Death is a gate of dreariness and gloom, That leads to azure isles and beaming skies, And happy regions of eternal hope.
Page 256 - Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand ? So long have the grey bare walks lain guestless, Through branches and briers if a man make way, He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless Night and day. The dense hard passage is blind and stifled That crawls by a track none turn to climb To the strait waste place that the years have rifled Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time.
Page 255 - IN a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee, Walled round with rocks as an inland island, The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses The steep square slope of the blossomless bed Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses Now lie dead.
Page 29 - In so moche that in my dayes happened that certayn marchautes were in a shippe in tamyse for to haue sayled ouer the see into zelande / and for lacke of wynde, thei taryed atte forlond, and wente to lande for to refreshe them: And one of theym named sheffelde, a mercer, cam in to an hows and axed for mete : and specyally he axyd after eggys : And the goode wyf answerde, that she coude speke no frenshe.