The earth is given To us: we reign by virtue of a sense Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse, To know its troubles ere they have been told, When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns? JEAN INGELOW, Gladys and Her Island. We count For poets all who ever felt that such About the bareness of their lives, and hang IBID. Jewels five words long, That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever. ALFRED TENNYSON, The Princess. A verse may find him who a sermon flies, GEORGE HERBERT, The Church Porch. And once I knew a meditative rose It bloomed and faded here beside the road, -Doth not song To the whole world belong! Is it not given wherever tears can fall, ISA CRAIG-KNOX, Ode on a Centenary of Burns. All days are birthdays in the life, That Time permits, is his who sings; By secret help of Time's own wings. HELEN HUNT Jackson, To O. W. Holmes on his 70th Birthday. He walks with God upon the hills! And sees, each morn, the world arise New-bathed in light of Paradise. |