This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1887 edition. Excerpt: ...scattered dust? Can you believe this streak of red Lives, while her subtle soul is dead? Do the cicada's wings infold Essence her spirit could not hold? Dare you avouch this bronze can be Something immortal more than she? iV. Why do I ask? Somewhere, somewhere, Shrouded in boundless depths of air ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1887 edition. Excerpt: ...scattered dust? Can you believe this streak of red Lives, while her subtle soul is dead? Do the cicada's wings infold Essence her spirit could not hold? Dare you avouch this bronze can be Something immortal more than she? iV. Why do I ask? Somewhere, somewhere, Shrouded in boundless depths of air Nearer than we conceive, or far Out of the reach of sun or star, Vital and sentient, mind, heart, will, Waits this belle of Praeneste still, Conscious as when in the flesh below, Nearly three thousand years ago--Waits--and for what? Ah, God doth know! / THE LONGSHOREMAN'S VIEW OF IT. What did he do? Oh, nothing much; Standing upon the bluff one day, Suddenly, ere his hand could clutch Even his dress, the boy, I say, Whom he was watching, as he threw Yonder his tackle over the height, Toppled headforemost into the blue Wash of the sea, and was swept from sight. Yonder just where the breakers churn Madly their crested caps to snow, Where you can see the shelving turn Sharp towards the jutting crag below; That's where he sank: No faintest chance Even to venture a hope upon: Had he but waited for one brief glance, He would have known it--the boy was gone. Noble? Yes--think how he rushed on death, Sprang to the spot with one wild leap, Plunged, without pausing to draw a breath, Into the jaws of the boiling deep, Right where the breakers, hurrying fast Over each other with blinding spray, Tumbled and scattered in surges vast, Just as you see them do to-day. What were a couple of lives to them? Little as yonder swirling chips, --They with their rush no might can stem, Ready to swallow a hundred ships. Father or brother? Nay, not he! Only a stranger, some one said; The greater the pity, it seems to me, Being no other, --since he is dead. Ah, thank Heaven!...
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