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. 1912 edition. Excerpt: ... Above the elm and sycamore. The vines our father loved to prune Still climbed along the high red wall, And on that August afternoon A funeral Drew near where he was wont to wait The mourners at the churchyard-gate. As idlers once, so, reverent, then, We stood beside the dark pit's brim, And heard the ...
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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. 1912 edition. Excerpt: ... Above the elm and sycamore. The vines our father loved to prune Still climbed along the high red wall, And on that August afternoon A funeral Drew near where he was wont to wait The mourners at the churchyard-gate. As idlers once, so, reverent, then, We stood beside the dark pit's brim, And heard the sorrowful Amen, The wailing hymn, From loving lips which scarce could trust Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Awhile we gazed and strove to trace Some voice or look that we had known, In vain, --in all the throng no face Familiar grown Restored to us with shadowed truth A vision of the hours of youth. We turned and saw the sunbeams streak A branching blackness that we knew; For many a game of hide-and-seek In that vast yew I-lad mocked with ringing laughter's sound The silence of the sacred ground. We wist not then the hour was nigh When neath yon block of square-hewn stone The little group we loved should lie, And we, alone, With faltering feet should one day come To trace the letters of their tomb. But, courage! though the night grow black And blacker, we will not repine: Who knows beyond life's vanished wrack What lights may shine? And Dawn on other shores may bring Immortal youth, perpetual spring. XXXIX. A WOMAN'S LAST wOru). DEAD? Yes, I see him stark there on the bed, Thank God, stone-dead. Nor can I, as you preach to me I ought, Think one kind thought, Or say one soft word to his memory, Howe'er I try. ' De M0rluz's'--it is a fool who writes For hypocrites; Better without false tear or feigned ruth The whole, black truth. God! how I always hated him, and how I hate him now! By him, I tell you, even from the first, My life was cursed: He made me traitress to divinest trust, And his hands thrust...
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