My Life Story

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R. G. Badger, 1920 - Women - 164 pages

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Page 158 - The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; The smack and tang of elemental things...
Page 86 - I dare not guess; but in this life Of error, ignorance, and strife. Where nothing is, but all things seem. And we the shadows of the dream, It is a modest creed, and yet Pleasant if one considers it, To own that death itself must be. Like all the rest, a mockery.
Page 161 - For Yesterday is but a Dream, And Tomorrow is only a Vision; But Today well lived makes Every Yesterday a Dream of Happiness, And every Tomorrow a Vision of Hope. Look well therefore to this Day ! Such is the Salutation of the Dawn.
Page 89 - As he heard them When he sat with those who were, but are not. Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, Nor the march of the encroaching city, Drives an exile From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. We may build more splendid habitations, Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, But we cannot Buy with gold the old associations ! CATAWBA WINE.
Page 154 - FAIR are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer; Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer; Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is sweeter; And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning outmastered the metre.
Page 157 - WHEN the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need. She took the tried clay of the common road — Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. Into the shape she breathed a flame to light That tender, tragic, ever-changing face.
Page 159 - And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.
Page 158 - As to the great oak flaring to the wind — To the grave's low hill- as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky.
Page 86 - It is a modest creed, and yet Pleasant, if one considers it, To own that death itself must be, Like all the rest, a mockery. That garden sweet, that lady fair, And all sweet shapes and odours there, In truth have never passed away : 'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed ! not they. For love, and beauty, and delight, There is no death nor change ; their might Exeeeds our organs, which endure No light, being themselves obscure.
Page 158 - And evermore he burned to do his deed With the fine stroke and gesture of a king; He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, The conscience of him testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man.

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