The Monitions of the Unseen, and Poems of Love and Childhood

Roberts brothers, 1871 - 172 ˹

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˹ 89 - THE LONG WHITE SEAM. SI came round the harbor buoy, The lights began to gleam, No wave the land-locked water stirred, The crags were white as cream ; And I marked my love by candle-light Sewing her long white seam. It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, Watch and steer at sea, It's reef and furl, and haul the line, Set sail and think of thee. I climbed to reach her cottage door ; O...
˹ 33 - A BIRTHDAY : and now a day that rose With much of hope, with meaning rife A thoughtful day from dawn to close : The middle day of human life.
˹ 31 - I will trust in Him, THAT HE CAN HOLD His OWN ; and I will take His will, above the work He sendeth me, To be my chief est good." Then went he forth, " I shall die early," thinking : " I am warned, By this fair vision, that I have not long To live.
˹ 55 - WHEN I reflect how little I have done, And add to that how little I have seen, Then furthermore how little I have won Of joy, or good, how little known, or been : I long for other life more full, more keen, And yearn to change with such as well have run Yet reason mocks me nay, the soul, I ween, Granted her choice would dare to change with none...
˹ 1 - Are of the race, themselves among the crowd Under the sentence and outside the gate. And of the family and in the doom. Cold is the world; they feel how cold it is, And wish that they could warm it. Hard is life For some. They would that they could soften it; And, in the doing of their work, they sigh As if it was their choice and not their lot; And, in the raising of their prayer to God. They crave His kindness for the world He made, Till they, at last, forget that He, not they, Is the true lover...
˹ 31 - I am glad to think I am not bound to make the world go right, But only to discover and to do, With cheerful heart, the work that God appoints.
˹ 96 - O SLEEP, we are beholden to thee, sleep, Thou bearest angels to us in the night, Saints out of heaven with palms. Seen by thy light Sorrow is some old tale that goeth not deep ; Love is a pouting child.