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Friday May 17, 2024
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Quotes: 53419
Authors: 9969
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Search Results for "thee" |
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Parting What brought it back to me? I thought that it had fled; Again I sit with thee And watch the twilight red. Far out upon the deep The full moon's light is thrown. This night thou must not sleep; Stay near me, O, my own! How hard for me to know That this must be the last; That duty's wave must flow O'er all the sacred past. Dear heart, what walls that rise Can bar out memory's view, Or hush the poor heart's sighs You'll know are breathed for you? So fair the moon will rise To other eyes than ours, That weep while bitter sighs Stay not the winged hours. Upon the radiant sight, Front out the thronged halls, Like requiem to-night, The entrancing music falls. At last the daylight makes, With rising shafts of gold, Each heart in parting breaks, And duty's wage is told.
Augusta Joyce Crocheron
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Things that never die The pure, the bright, the beautiful That stirred our hearts in youth, The impulses to wordless prayer, The streams of love and truth, The longing after something lost, The spirits yearning cry, The striving after better hopes These things can never die. The timid hand stretched forth to aid A brother in his need; A kindly word in griefs dark hour That proves a friend indeed; The plea for mercy softly breathed, When justice threatens high, The sorrow of a contrite heart These things shall never die. Let nothing pass, for every hand Must find some work to do, Lose not a chance to waken love Be firm and just and true. So shall a light that cannot fade Beam on thee from on high, And angel voices say to thee 'These things shall never die.'
Charles John Huffam Dickens
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Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms, can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
John Donne
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