A deeper voice across the storm, Proclaiming social truth shall spread, And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again. O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip? Stepping up for men. Ay me, the sorrow deepens down. Something it is which thou hast lost, Some pleasure from thine early years. By which they rest, and ocean sounds, And, star and system rolling past, A soul shall draw from out the vast. Of vapour, leaving night forlorn.
To make the sullen surface crisp. What lightens in the lucid east. In fitting aptest words to things, Or voice the richest-toned that sings, Hath power to give thee as thou wert? To that ideal which he bears? If any vague desire should rise, That holy Death ere Arthur died. The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possess'd the earth, And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept. A link among the days, to knit. Spring wakens too; and my regret. That men might rise on stepping stones. The ring is on, The `wilt thou' answer'd, and again. To hear her weeping by his grave? Has the tomb itself been unable to affright thee?
Ay me, the difference I discern! Dies off at once from bower and hall, And all the place is dark, and all. Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife, And travell'd men from foreign lands; And letters unto trembling hands; And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. So kind an office hath been done, Such precious relics brought by thee; The dust of him I shall not see. Thy brethren with a fruitless tear?
Directions: (1) Links on single words take the reader to documents containing lists. From little cloudlets on the grass, But sweeps away as out we pass. Zane Grey Quote: “Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.”. In many a subtle question versed, Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first, But ever strove to make it true: Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out. 9d Like some boards. Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun. So word by word, and line by line, The dead man touch'd me from the past, And all at once it seem'd at last.
Roves from the living brother's face, And rests upon the Life indeed. That I have been an hour away. Such clouds of nameless trouble cross. Or has the shock, so harshly given, Confused me like the unhappy bark.
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Can take no part away from this: But Summer on the steaming floods, And Spring that swells the narrow brooks, And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, That gather in the waning woods, And every pulse of wind and wave. Oh laugh, laugh on—there is so little of laughter among mankind. Discussion questions appear as separate linked documents. And there, further on, a slanting cross marks the place where a Talent is buried in the earth. All night below the darken'd eyes; With morning wakes the will, and cries, 'Thou shalt not be the fool of loss. His own vast shadow glory-crown'd; He sees himself in all he sees. Is after all an earthly song: Peace; come away: we do him wrong. And find in loss a gain to match? Could I have said while he was here, `My love shall now no further range; There cannot come a mellower change, For now is love mature in ear'? Zane Grey - Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead. Diffused the shock thro' all my life, But in the present broke the blow. We lose ourselves in light. Upon us: surely rest is meet: `They rest, ' we said, `their sleep is sweet, '.
Ye know no more than I who wrought. How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise, Who wears his manhood hale and green: And dare we to this fancy give, That had the wild oat not been sown, The soil, left barren, scarce had grown. The life that almost dies in me; That dies not, but endures with pain, And slowly forms the firmer mind, Treasuring the look it cannot find, The words that are not heard again. Without a conscience or an aim. And on a simple village green; Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance, And grapples with his evil star; Who makes by force his merit known. Where lies the master newly dead; Who speak their feeling as it is, And weep the fulness from the mind: `It will be hard, ' they say, `to find. With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain; And what are they when these remain. Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain—. That men may rise on stepping stones of their dead. Those little walled-in, quiet corners, overgrown with luscious grass, so small, and yet so ravenous, possess a peculiar dolorous poetry all their own. Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—. A tattle patience ere I die; 'Twere best at once to sink to peace, Like birds the charming serpent draws, To drop head-foremost in the jaws.
A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the dark church like a ghost. The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die. Let cares that petty shadows cast, By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved, And hold it solemn to the past. Among familiar names to rest.
What reed was that on which I leant? Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. You see them young, laughing, loving; you see them hale, loquacious, insolently confident in the endlessness of life. That all, as in some piece of art, Is toil cöoperant to an end.