The Contents of the Boy

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Jennings and Graham, 1909 - 303 pages
 

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Page 89 - Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west — But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.
Page 57 - Who hath woe ? who hath sorrow ? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause ? who hath redness of eyes ? They that tarry long at the wine ; they that go to seek mixed wine.
Page 104 - Perhaps, in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Page 271 - Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew ; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod...
Page 209 - I took a pie.ce of plastic clay, And idly fashioned it one day, And as my fingers pressed it, still It moved and yielded to my will.
Page 89 - And well may the children weep before you! They are weary ere they run; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man, without...
Page 271 - Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Page 89 - Do you question the young children in the sorrow Why their tears are falling so ? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago ; The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost : But the young, young children, O my brothers Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland...
Page 271 - BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes ; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; From my heart I give thee joy, — I was once a barefoot boy ! Prince thou art, — the grown-up man Only is republican.
Page 58 - Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, When it sparkleth in the cup, When it goeth down smoothly: At the last it biteth like a serpent, And stingeth like an adder.

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