The weary Body, longing for repose, On the gained level of the day’s ascent, Halts for the night and pitches there its tent.
ABRAHAM COLESThe weary Body, longing for repose, On the gained level of the day’s ascent, Halts for the night and pitches there its tent.
More Abraham Coles Quotes
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Who has not seen that feeling born of flame Crimson the cheek at mention of a name?
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Taking our stand on the immovable rock of Christ’s character we risk nothing in saying that the wine of miracle answered to the wine of nature, and was not intoxicating.
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Fling out, fling out, with cheer and shout, To all the winds of Our Country’s Banner!
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Within a bony labrinthean cave, Reached by the pulse of the aerial wave, This sibyl, sweet, and Mystic Sense is found, Muse, that presides o’er all the Powers of Sound.
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O, beautiful and grand, My own, my native land! Of thee I boast: Great empire of the west, The dearest and the best, Made up of all the rest, I love thee most.
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O loving woman, man’s fulfillment, sweet, Completing him not otherwise complete! How void and useless the sad remnant left Were he of her, his nobler part, bereft.
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Let us not doubt that God has a father’s pity towards us, and that in the removal of that which is dearest to us He is still loving and kind.
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The rapturous touch of some divine surpriseFlash deep suffusion of celestial dyes
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The power, which in a sense belongs to none, Thus understood belongs to every one.
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I value science–none can prize it more, It gives ten thousand motives to adore: Be it religious, as it ought to be, The heart it humbles, and it bows the knee.
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With dazzling pomp descending angels sung Good will and peace to men, to God due praise, Who on the errand of salvation sent
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The grave, where sets the orb of being, sets To rise, ascend, and culminate above Eternity’s horizon evermore.
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Thee, Son Beloved! of plural Unity Essential part, made flesh that mad’st all worlds.
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Much of our ignorance is of ourselves. Our eyes are full of dust. Prejudice blinds us.
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Words are freeborn, and not the vassals of the gruff tyrants of prose to do their bidding only. They have the same right to dance and sing as the dewdrops have to sparkle and the stars to shine.
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