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<p>75<lb/> | |||
'' | <head>Monday Evening</head></p> | ||
<p>The stars are shining in their wonted stillness<lb/> | |||
And darkness <del>fills</del> <add>wraps</add> the melancholy deeps;<lb/> | |||
The many colored tints of day are faded,<lb/> | |||
In the black hall of night existence sleeps.</p> | |||
<p>'Tis silence all; – save where the dry leaves falling<lb/> | |||
Are <del>shaken</del> <add>scattered</add> by the <del>evening</del> breezes of the hill;<lb/> | |||
While the cold dew is on the dark sod sprinkled<lb/> | |||
<del>And the white daisies all the</del> <add>And the damp meets the shadowed</add> <unclear>vallies</unclear> fill.</p> | |||
<p>All, all is hurrying to decay & ruin<lb/> | |||
Mortality must triumph – as the wreath<del>s</del><lb/> | |||
Fades on the harp – tho' sweet its living music,<lb/> | |||
<del>Life is the slave – the helpless slave of death.</del> <add>So life is blended with decay & death</add></p> | |||
<p>Time rolls its mighty waters, – its <del><gap/></del> <add><del><gap/></del> swift</add> current<lb/> | |||
Wrecks all man's hopes upon its rocky shore;<lb/> | |||
Till the grave calls him to her peaceful slumbers<lb/> | |||
And tears are shed & grief is felt no more.</p> | |||
<p>Rest softly, our forefathers! – ye whose plans<lb/> | |||
Your children's <del><gap/></del> children occupy – sleep on<lb/> | |||
Come then our Sons; – & see the rugged journey<lb/> | |||
Which ye must take, when we, your Sires all give.</p> | |||
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{{Metadata:{{PAGENAME}}}}{{ | {{Metadata:{{PAGENAME}}}}{{Completed}} |
75
Monday Evening
The stars are shining in their wonted stillness
And darkness fills wraps the melancholy deeps;
The many colored tints of day are faded,
In the black hall of night existence sleeps.
'Tis silence all; – save where the dry leaves falling
Are shaken scattered by the evening breezes of the hill;
While the cold dew is on the dark sod sprinkled
And the white daisies all the And the damp meets the shadowed vallies fill.
All, all is hurrying to decay & ruin
Mortality must triumph – as the wreaths
Fades on the harp – tho' sweet its living music,
Life is the slave – the helpless slave of death. So life is blended with decay & death
Time rolls its mighty waters, – its swift current
Wrecks all man's hopes upon its rocky shore;
Till the grave calls him to her peaceful slumbers
And tears are shed & grief is felt no more.
Rest softly, our forefathers! – ye whose plans
Your children's children occupy – sleep on
Come then our Sons; – & see the rugged journey
Which ye must take, when we, your Sires all give.
Identifier: | JB/110/244/001"JB/" can not be assigned to a declared number type with value 110. |
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110 |
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244 |
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001 |
monday evening |
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collectanea |
3 |
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recto |
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sir john bowring |
[[watermarks::[partial motif] <…>19]] |
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1819 |
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36234 |
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