The Gray Brethren and Other Fragments in Prose and Verse by Michael Fairless
page 33 of 68 (48%)
page 33 of 68 (48%)
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resting-place? What spectre hurried them to the leap? These
things, too, are my concern, the river says. Life is very grim in London: it is not painted in the fair, glowing colours of grass and sky and trees, and shining streams that bring peace. It is drawn in hard black and white; but the voice of its dark waters must be heard all the same. * * * * * I would not leave my rivers in the shadow. After all, this life is only a prelude, a beginning: we pass on to where "the rivers and streams make glad the city of God." But if we will not listen here how shall we understand hereafter. Spring Hark how the merry daffodils, Fling golden music to the hills! And how the hills send echoing down, Through wind-swept turf and moorland brown, The murmurs of a thousand rills That mock the song-birds' liquid trills! The hedge released from Winter's frown Shews jewelled branch and willow crown; While all the earth with pleasure trills, |
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