Read online or download a free book: The Quiet Hour: Selected And Arranged
Publisher: RareBooksClub.com (6 July 2012)
By: Fitz Roy Carrington (Author)
Book format: pdf doc docx mobi djvu epub ibooks (*An electronic version of a printed book that can be read on a computer or handheld device designed specifically for this purpose.)
This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1915 edition. Excerpt: ... 'Dear child! I also by pleasant streams Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams: But though calm and warm the waters wide, I could not get to the other side.' 'Father, 0 father! what do we here? In this land of unbelief and fear? The Land of Dreams is better far, Above the light of the morning star.' William Blake. Lullaby The rook's nest do rock on the tree-top Where vew foes can stand: The martin's is high, an' is deep In the steep cliff o' zand. But thou, love, a-sleepin' where vootsteps Mid come to thy bed, Hast father an' mother to watch thee An' shelter thy head. Lullaby, Lilybrow. Lie asleep: Blest be thy rest. An' zome birds do keep under ruffen Their young vrom the storm, An' zome wi' nest-hoodens o' moss An' o' wool, do lie warm. An' we wull look well to the house ruf That o'er thee mid leak, An' the blast that mid beat on thy winder Shall not smite thy cheak. Lullaby, Lilybrow. Lie asleep: Blest be thy rest. William Barnes. O Sleep, My Babe O Sleep, my babe, hear not the rippling wave, Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling'ring strays To drink thy balmy breath, And sigh one long farewell. Soon shall it mourn above thy wat'ry bed, And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore, Deep murm'ring in reproach, Thy sad untimely fate. Ere those dear eyes had open'd on the light, In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold, O waken'd but to sleep, Whence it can wake no more! A thousand and a thousand silken leaves The tufted beech unfolds in early spring, All clad in tenderest green, All of the selfsame shape: A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet, Each year sends forth, yet every mother views Her last not least beloved Like its dear self alone. No musing mind hath ever yet foreshaped The face to-morrow's sun shall first reveal, No heart...
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