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Página 277 - A SENSITIVE PLANT in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew. And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night. And the spring arose on the garden fair, Like the spirit of love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on earth's dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
Página 57 - The learn'd is happy nature to explore, The fool is happy that he knows no more ; The rich is happy in the plenty given, The poor contents him with the care of Heaven.
Página 177 - And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
Página 429 - What plant we in this apple-tree ? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast, Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest...
Página 100 - In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. And with child-like, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand ; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.
Página 213 - Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope; Leaves unfold into horizons free. So man's life must climb From the clods of time Unto heavens sublime. Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree, What the glory of thy boughs shall be? He who plants a tree Plants a joy; Plants a comfort that will never cloy; Every day a fresh reality, Beautiful and strong, To whose shelter throng Creatures blithe with song. If thou couldst but know, thou happy tree, Of the bliss that shall inhabit thee!
Página 109 - Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook. Floral apostles, that, in dewy splendor, " Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," O, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, Your lore sublime.
Página 109 - Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, Which God hath...