The poetical works of George Herbert. Illustrated

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James Nisbet and Company, 1856 - 20 من الصفحات
 

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الصفحة 113 - The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die.
الصفحة 197 - Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage, Thy rope of sands, Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw And be thy law, While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away; take heed: I will abroad. Call in thy death's head there: tie up thy fears. He that forbears To suit and serve his need, Deserves his load.
الصفحة 57 - When I got health, Thou took'st away my life, And more, — for my friends die: My mirth and edge was lost, a blunted knife Was of more use...
الصفحة 231 - DISCIPLINE. THROW away thy rod. Throw away thy wrath 0 my God, Take the gentle path. For my heart's desire Unto thine is bent : I aspire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own, But by book, And thy book alone. Though I fail, I weep : Though I halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace.
الصفحة 51 - With Thee O let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day Thy victories : Then shall the fall further the flight in me.
الصفحة 238 - Will not grow bright and clean. A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine : Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws, Makes that and th
الصفحة 213 - THE FLOWER. How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are Thy returns ! e'en as the flowers in spring , To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.
الصفحة 161 - PEACE. SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell ? I humbly crave, Let me once know. I sought thee in a secret cave, And ask'd, if Peace were there. A hollow wind did seem to answer, No : Go seek elsewhere.
الصفحة 251 - Upon Thine altar burnt? Cannot Thy love Heighten a spirit to sound out Thy praise As well as any she? Cannot Thy Dove Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight?
الصفحة 215 - And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing: O my only light, It cannot be That I am he, On whom thy tempests fell all night.

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