Our voices took a higher range; Once more we sang: `They do not die. The level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Dost thou look back on what hath been, As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began. But thou art turn'd to something strange, And I have lost the links that bound. With ravine, shriek'd against his creed—. But who shall so forecast the years And find in loss a gain to match? Zane Grey - Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. A thousand pulses dancing, fail. If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow ancis of Assisi.
Not the sinless years. By each cold hearth, and sadness flings. That men may rise on stepping-stones. And took it, and have worn it, like a king: And, wheresoever I am sung or told. There in the many-knotted water-flags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroy'd, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete; That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire. To works of weakness, but I find. Beneath all fancied hopes and fears.
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw. That tumbled in the Godless deep; A warmth within the breast would melt. Let me kiss your feet. From household fountains never dry; The critic clearness of an eye, That saw thro' all the Muses' walk; Seraphic intellect and force. I perish by this people which I made, —. I seem to cast a careless eye. Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright.
O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me. And roar from yonder dropping day: The last red leaf is whirl'd away, The rooks are blown about the skies; The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, The cattle huddled on the lea; And wildly dash'd on tower and tree. We ceased:a gentler feeling crept. But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved. Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves. Men who step up. In native hazels tassel-hung. Another service such as this. I am going a long way. Of those and related words in other sections of the poem. Oh yet we trust that somehow good.
Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door. As wan, as chill, as wild as now; Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime, When the dark hand struck down thro' time, And cancell'd nature's best: but thou, Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd brows. What is, and no man understands; And out of darkness came the hands. So like a shatter'd column lay the King; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how. Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge, ". Sermons on men stepping up. When crown'd with blessing she doth rise. To this which is our common grief, What kind of life is that I lead; And whether trust in things above. 'So careful of the type? ' I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray; And then I know the mist is drawn. Salutes them—maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers. As echoes out of weaker times, As half but idle brawling rhymes, The sport of random sun and shade. Thro' all his eddying coves, the same.
In many a subtle question versed, Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first, But ever strove to make it true: Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out. Who show'd a token of distress? Lay a great water, and the moon was full. What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard? Zane Grey Quote: “Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.”. The grand old name of gentleman, Defamed by every charlatan, And soil'd with all ignoble use. O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, That sittest ranging golden hair; And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love! Dragons of the prime, That tare each other in their slime, Were mellow music match'd with him. And this poor flower of poesy.
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time. As light as carrier-birds in air; I loved the weight I had to bear, Because it needed help of Love: Nor could I weary, heart or limb, When mighty Love would cleave in twain. That range above our mortal state, In circle round the blessed gate, Received and gave him welcome there; And led him thro' the blissful climes, And show'd him in the fountain fresh. But is it necessary to go out of one's house to visit a burial ground? Than in the summers that are flown, For I myself with these have grown. Had bruised the herb and crush'd the grape, And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. In vain; a favourable speed. Is on the skull which thou hast made. Morte d'Arthur by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns. Witch-elms that counterchange the floor. And barren chasms, and all to left and right. We have but faith: we cannot know; For knowledge is of things we see. But this mood does not last. Whereof this world holds record.
What find I in the highest place, But mine own phantom chanting hymns? Desire of nearness doubly sweet; And unto meeting when we meet, Delight a hundredfold accrue, For every grain of sand that runs, And every span of shade that steals, And every kiss of toothed wheels, And all the courses of the suns. Is cold to all that might have been. I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word. The wish too strong for words to name; That in this blindness of the frame. There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die. The low love-language of the bird. On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang.
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. I cannot guess; But tho' I seem in star and flower. Who art thou, stout, funny little cherub? Who, but hung to hear.