Golden Grains from Life's Harvest FieldBradley, 1856 - 240 pagine |
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affliction arrow asked beautiful better blessed bosom Burton calm Charles Burton Charley child colt crying damaged dark dear dear boy delight duty Earnest Emily evil eyes face farm father feel felt field Florence flowers gentle grief grows much bread hand happy head heart Heaven heavenly Henry Miller hour hundred dollars husband Jones Kriss Kringle Lamberton leaf lips lisped look loss lost arrow marriage means mind mother neighbor never night old browney pain passed passion Peter Ellis pleasant pleasure poor portunate Preston replied rest rich Sabbath Saratoga selfish sick musician sigh smiling soon sorrow spirit spoke stood sunset tree sweet tears tempest thee thing thou thought thousand dollars Tiller tone trouble true turkeys turned unhappy voice Weldon wife words wrong young
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Pagina 212 - But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen, And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light...
Pagina 212 - Alas ! They all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
Pagina 212 - The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.
Pagina 177 - But rest more sweet and still Than ever nightfall gave, Our yearning hearts shall fill In the world beyond the grave. There shall no tempest blow, No scorching noontide heat ; There shall be no more «now,1 No weary, wandering feet. So we lift our trusting eyes From the hills our fathers trode, To the quiet of the skies, To the Sabbath of our God.
Pagina 177 - To the quiet of the skies, To the Sabbath of our God. Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done!
Pagina 82 - Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head. Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide; All without thy care or payment, All thy wants are well supplied. How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from Heaven He descended, And became a child like thee! Soft and easy is thy cradle: Coarse...
Pagina 177 - Yes ; tuneful is the sound That dwells in whispering boughs; Welcome the freshness round ! And the gale that fans our brows. But rest more sweet and still Than ever nightfall gave, Our yearning hearts shall fill In the world beyond the grave.
Pagina 176 - COME to the sunset tree ! The day is past and gone ; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done. The twilight star to heaven, And the summer dew to flowers, And rest to us, is given By the cool soft evening hours. Sweet is the hour of rest ! Pleasant the wind's low sigh, And the gleaming of the west, And the turf whereon we lie. When the burden and the heat Of labor's task are o'er, And kindly voices greet The tired one at his door. Come to the sunset tree ! The day is past and gone...
Pagina 214 - Where are the notes of spring ? Yet the brown bee still hums his quiet tune, And the low shiver of the insect's wing, Disturbs the hush of noon. The thin, transparent leaves, Like flakes of amber, quiver in the light, While autumn round her silver fret-work weaves In glittering hoar-frost white. Oh, Autumn, thou art blest ! My bosom heaves with breathless rapture here : I love thee well, season of mournful rest ! Sweet Sabbath of the year ! SONG OF THE FLOWER SPIRIT.