The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 107

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Atlantic Monthly Company, 1911 - American essays

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Page 131 - Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an...
Page 95 - ... to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion...
Page 460 - From and after May first, nineteen hjndrcd and eight, it shall be unlawful for any railroad company to transport from any State, Territory, or the District of Columbia, to any other State, Territory, or the District of Columbia, or to any foreign country, any...
Page 319 - Rugby Chapel NOVEMBER 1857 Coldly, sadly descends The autumn evening. The field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of withered leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent, - hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play! The lights come out in the street, In the school-room windows; - but cold, Solemn, unlighted, austere, Through the gathering darkness, arise The chapel-walls, in whose bound Thou, my father! art laid. There thou dost lie, in the gloom Of the autumn evening.
Page 325 - The strongest bond of human sympathy, outside of the family relation, should be one uniting all working people of all nations and tongues and kindreds.
Page 712 - Baa, baa, black sheep, Have you any wool? Yes, sir, yes, sir, Three bags full...
Page 66 - I do not know how far this feeling extends in the army. My brother officers have been too kind to report it, and so far the troops have been too generous to exhibit it. It is fair, however, to suppose that it does exist, and success is so necessary to us that nothing should be risked to secure it. I therefore, in all sincerity, request Your Excellency to take measures to supply my place. I do this with the more earnestness because no one is more aware than myself of my inability for the duties of...
Page 520 - If I but touch thy silvered hair, Thy hasty wish hath sped. "But is there nothing in thy track To bid thee fondly stay. While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day?
Page 272 - Low, like another's, lies the laurelled head: The life that seemed a perfect song is o'er: Carry the last great bard to his last bed. Land that he loved, thy noblest voice is mute. Land that he loved, that loved him! nevermore Meadow of thine, smooth lawn or wild sea-shore, Gardens of odorous bloom and tremulous fruit, Or woodlands old, like Druid couches spread, The master's feet shall tread. Death's little rift hath rent the faultless lute: The singer of undying songs is dead.
Page 369 - How will you ever straighten up this shape; Touch it again with immortality; Give back the upward looking and the light; Rebuild in it the music and the dream; Make right the immemorial infamies, Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

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