The little wind that hardly shook
The silver of the sleeping brook
Blew the gold hair about her eyes,--
A mystery of mysteries.
So he must often pause, and stoop,
An all the wanton ringlets loop
Behind her dainty ear--emprise
Of slow event and many sighs.
Out of the fragrant heart of bloom,
The bobolinks are singing;
Out of the fragrant heart of bloom
The apple-tree whispers to the room,
"Why art thou but a nest of gloom
While the bobolinks are singing?"
Commemoration of Theodore of Tarsus, Archbishop of Canterbury, 690 If I lay waste and wither up with doubt The blessed fields of heaven where once my Faith possessed itself serenely safe from death; If I deny things past finding out; Or if I orphan my own soul from One That seemed a Father, and make void the place Within me where He dwelt in Power and Grace, What do I gain by what I have undone?
The swelling and towering omnibuses, the huge trucks and wagons and carriages, the impetuous hansoms and the more sobered four-wheelers, the pony-carts, donkey-carts, hand-carts, and bicycles which fearlessly find their way amidst the turmoil, with foot-passengers winding in and out, and covering the sidewalks with their multitude, give the effect of a single monstrous organism, which writhes swiftly along the channel where it had run in the figure of a flood till you were tired of that metaphor. You are now a molecule
Out of the fragrant heart of bloom, The bobolinks are singing; Out of the fragrant heart of bloom The apple-tree whispers to the room, "Why art thou but a nest of gloom While the bobolinks are singing?