Treasury of literature color the sky
We had met but a few short summer hours; Talked of the sun, the wind, the flowers, Sports and people; had rambled through A casual catchy song or two, And walked with arms linked to the car By the light of a single misty star. In that red hell of shrieking shell Unfaltering our gunners fell. O NCE, in my moment of earth, Before the immortal re-birth, I thought of my flesh as a thing Like to the house of a king,— Beautiful, worthy to stand Proud on the heavenly strand. Shadow saw all these things, and he knew they were the same thing. The one with the queer, old muzzle-loading gun Jumped down with a light quick leap. How can I not believe in the gods when I have seen them for myself? One bough of clear promise Across the moon. The sect, whose members called themselves The Unforgiven, persisted for two years, until its last adherent finally killed himself, having survived the other members by almost seven months. Views Read Edit View history. Cast away regret and rue, Think what you are marching to.
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Poems Poetry In Voice
: Color the sky (HBJ treasury of literature) () by Roger C Farr and a great selection of similar New, Used and Collectible Books. Color the sky. Blue waters. Hold on tight. Sidewalks sing. All kinds of friends. Place to dream. Sea of wonder. Emerald forest. Out of this world. Shades of gold.
I have a temple I do not Visit, a heart I have forgot, A self that I have never met, A secret shrine—and yet, and yet.
His head was hammering, and his eyes were dim; A bloody sweat seemed to ooze out of him And freeze along his spine. He was numb: heart-numb, mind-numb, soul-numb.
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He was angry, too; And he whispered: "Are you game? A LEAGUE and a league from the trenches—from the traversed maze of the lines, Where daylong the sniper watches and daylong the bullet whines, And the cratered earth is in travail with mines and with countermines—. I am Portico's daughter, of the House of the Arch.
Color the sky (HBJ treasury of literature) Roger C Farr A strange sound awakens thirteen-year-old Tymmon?nbsp;? nbsp;in the.
I am her bodyguard. Ah, bombing is a Briton's game! Their menial cries Are distant as the sparrows' chatterings; She rises in her circuit of the skies, An eagle with the dawn upon her wings.
Patrick MacGill. And never a living soul walks there To taste the fresh of the morning air;— Only some lumps of rotting clay, That were friends or foemen yesterday.
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Treasury of literature color the sky
W HO would remember me were I to die, Remember with a pang and yet no pain; Remember as a friend, and feel good-bye Said at each memory as it wakes again?
Was there grief once? You have a hole in your heart. How could such little wings Give thee thy freedom from these dense And fetid tombs—these burrows whence We peer like frightened things?
Author: Farr, Roger C. Published: Gr.K, ptpt First street. Gr.K/1. All ears. Gr.1, v Whisper a song. Gr.1, v Jump right in. Gr.1, v Color the sky. Gr.1,v Blue waters.
A Treasury of Poems for Children
Gr.1, v Hold on tight.
Hell wasn't a major reservoir of evil, any more than Heaven, in Crowley's opinion, was a fountain of goodness; they were just sides in the great cosmic chess game. Several years earlier Spider had actually been tremendously disappointed by a barrelful of monkeys.
A LEAGUE and a league from the trenches—from the traversed maze of the lines, Where daylong the sniper watches and daylong the bullet whines, And the cratered earth is in travail with mines and with countermines— Here, where haply some woman dreamed are those her roses that bloom In the garden beyond the windows of my littered working-room? Edward de Stein. And when the war is over I shall take My lute a-down to it and sing again Songs of the whispering things amongst the brake, And those I love shall know them by their strain.
Published by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich With a head hot and heavy And eyes that cannot rest, And a black heart burning In a stifled breast, I sit in the saddle, I feel the road unroll, And keep my senses straightened Toward to-morrow's goal.
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|Yet these, who cling to life with stubborn hands, Can grin through storms of death and find a gap In the clawed, cruel tangles of his defence.
I think I may have given it to all of them.
For works with similar titles, see Fulfilment. As quick pantomimes went, it was disturbing. I see with the clear vision of that untainted prime, Before the fool's bells jangled in and Elfland ceased to chime, That sin and pain and sorrow are but a pantomime— A dance of leaves in ether, of leaves threadbare and sere, From whose decaying husks at last what glory shall appear When the white winter angel leads in the happier year.