The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics

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Frederic Lawrence Knowles
L. C. Page (incorporated), 1897 - 330 ˹éÒ
 

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˹éÒ 151 - were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose ! I never thought to ask, I never knew : But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
˹éÒ 185 - say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn ? " " Why, you shall say, at break of day, ' Sail on ! Sail on ! Sail on ! and on ! ' " They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said : " Why, now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. 1 From
˹éÒ 13 - I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, — A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon. Her health ! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. EC
˹éÒ 217 - He dreampt of the pretty toys. And as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue, — Oh, the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true. Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place,
˹éÒ 82 - all that. And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old, forsaken bough Where I cling. OW HOLMES.
˹éÒ 238 - Y life closed twice before its close ; It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
˹éÒ 43 - Each where his tasks or pleasures call, They pass, and heed each other not. > There is who heeds, who holds them all In His large love and boundless thought. These struggling tides of life, that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end. WC BRYANT.
˹éÒ 218 - Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face. And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue Since he kissed them and put them there.
˹éÒ 93 - Leave him to God's watching eye; Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by; God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he ? He cannot know! Lay him low! GH BOKER.
˹éÒ 82 - now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin

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