An Anthology of Prose & Verse

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J.M. Dent & Sons Limited, 1922 - 173 psl.

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27 psl. - Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at Ombre, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down.
142 psl. - A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS. WHEN Spring comes laughing By vale and hill, By wind-flower walking And daffodil, — Sing stars of morning, Sing morning skies, Sing blue of speedwell, — And my Love's eyes. When comes the Summer, Full-leaved and strong, And gay birds gossip The orchard long,— Sing hid, sweet honey That no bee sips ; Sing red, red roses, — And my Love's lips. When Autumn scatters The leaves again, And piled sheaves bury The broad-wheeled wain, — Sing flutes of harvest Where men...
32 psl. - And a pinch from the Cure's box. There is also a word that no one heard To the furrier's daughter Lou; And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red, And a "Bon Dieu, garde m'sieu...
113 psl. - He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main; But we had bold Neptune to back us, — And where are the galleons of Spain?
108 psl. - You had no thought or presage Into what keeping you dismissed Your simple old-world message! A reverent one. Though we to-day Distrust beliefs and powers, The artless, ageless things you say Are fresh as May's own flowers, Starring some pure primeval spring, Ere Gold had grown despotic, — Ere Life was yet a selfish thing, Or Love a mere exotic!
14 psl. - He liked the drone of flies among His netted peaches ; He liked to watch the sunlight fall Athwart his ivied orchard wall ; Or pause to catch the cuckoo's call Beyond the beeches. His were the times of Paint and Patch, And yet no Ranelagh could match The sober doves that round his thatch Spread tails and sidled ; He liked their ruffling, puffed content, — For him their drowsy wheelings meant More than a Mall of Beaux that bent, Or Belles that bridled. Not that, in truth, when life began He shunned...
123 psl. - Smooth the folds out and see. Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled! Only the tremulous Words of a child; Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops. Look. She is sad to miss, Morning and night, His - her dead father's - kiss; Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet. That is all. 'Marguerite.
147 psl. - Kill not — for Pity's sake — and lest ye slay The meanest thing upon its upward way. Give freely and receive, but take from none By greed, or force or fraud, what is his own. Bear not false witness, slander not, nor lie ; Truth is the speech of inward purity. Shun drugs and drinks which work the wit abuse ; Clear minds, clean bodies, need no Soma juice.
112 psl. - KING PHILIP had vaunted his claims ; He had sworn for a year he would sack us, With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us ; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And...
12 psl. - I refrain to quote from Walpole regarding George — for those charming volumes are in the hands of all who love the gossip of the last century. Nothing can be more cheery than Horace's letters. Fiddles sing all through them : wax-lights, fine dresses, fine jokes, fine plate, fine equipages, glitter and sparkle there : never was such a brilliant, jigging, smirking Vanity Fair as that through which he leads us.

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