Echoes of Life and Death

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T.B. Mosher, 1908 - 63 ˹éÒ
 

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˹éÒ 7 - Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how straight the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.
˹éÒ 43 - A late lark twitters from the quiet skies; And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, gray city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace. "The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires Shine, and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with a sense of the triumphing nightNight, with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep.
˹éÒ 22 - THE nightingale has a lyre of gold, The lark's is a clarion call, And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute, But I love him best of all. For his song is all of the joy of life, And we in the mad, spring weather, We two have listened till he sang Our hearts and lips together.
˹éÒ 11 - FILL a glass with golden wine, And the while your lips are wet Set their perfume unto mine, And forget, Every kiss we take and give Leaves us less of life to live. Yet again ! Your whim and mine In a happy while have met. All your sweets to me resign, Nor regret That we press with every breath, Sighed or singing, nearer death.
˹éÒ 38 - s there I was to-day ; I wish from my heart I was far away from here, Sitting in my parlour and talking to my dear.
˹éÒ 13 - But he'll trap you in the end, And he'll stick you for her price. With his kneebones at your chest, And his knuckles in your throat, You would reason — plead — protest! Clutching at her petticoat; But...
˹éÒ 39 - O, there's a wind a-blowing, a-blowing from the west, And that of all the winds is the one I like the best, For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free, And it soon will blow us home to the old countrie. For it's home, dearie, home — it's home I want to be. Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree They're all growing green in the old countrie.
˹éÒ 48 - And you were a virgin slave. xxxv1 the way to Kew, By the river old and gray, Where in the Long Ago We laughed and loitered so, I met a ghost to-day, A ghost that told of you— A ghost of low replies And sweet inscrutable eyes Coming up from Richmond As you used to do. By the river old and gray, The enchanted Long Ago Murmured and smiled anew. On the way to Kew, March had the laugh of May, The bare boughs looked aglow, And old immortal words Sang in my breast like birds, Coming up from Richmond...
˹éÒ 6 - O, GATHER me the rose, the rose, While yet in flower we find it, For summer smiles, but summer goes, And winter waits behind it ! For with the dream foregone, foregone, The deed forborne for ever, The worm, regret, will canker on, And Time will turn him never.
˹éÒ 12 - The summer flowers are faded, the summer thoughts are sere. We'll go no more a-roving, lest worse befall, my dear. We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon.

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