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Página 100 - I'll be as busy as they." Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest ; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed In diamond beads ; and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear, That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.
Página 124 - The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree— It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.
Página 41 - THE VIOLET. DOWN in a green and shady bed, A modest violet grew, Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view.
Página 100 - Now, I shall be out of sight; So through the valley and over the height, In silence I'll take my way; I will not go on like that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain;— But I'll be as busy as they.
Página 26 - A fair little girl sat under a tree Sewing as long as her eyes could see; Then smoothed her work and folded it right, And said, " Dear work, good-night, good-night!" Such a number of rooks came over her head Crying, " Caw, caw ! " on their way to bed; She said, as she watched their curious flight, " Little black things, good-night, good-night!
Página 100 - That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head. He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped...
Página 26 - Though she saw him there like a ball of light ; For she knew he had God's time to keep All over the world and never could sleep.
Página 36 - Where he comes from nobody knows, Or where he goes to, but on he goes! His caravan has windows two, And a chimney of tin, that the smoke comes through; He has a wife, with a baby brown, And they go riding from town to town.
Página 12 - Mother, mother, the winds are at play, Prithee, let me be idle to-day. Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie Languidly under the bright blue sky. See, how slowly the streamlet glides ; Look, how the violet roguishly hides ; Even the butterfly rests on the rose, And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes. Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun, And...