L'ancien feu de cuisine, et d'autres poèmes . ips qui étaient rosés et chauds de vieux ! MES MORTS. 75 Ils ont appuyé contre la mienne, OH, oftentime.je les touche maintenant, mais je frissais avec peur. 0 mort, ton signataire est certainement ici; Et je me tourne de côté. Ah, bien un jour ! 1 n'osez pas regarder sur mon argile cernée. Elle est décédée, elle est décédée, Cette vie—cette vie.Elle est passée aux régions de la haute journée,Pour habiter avec Dieu et ses saints alway.Stilly, oh, stilly, dans des vêtements blancs,Elle glisse à la paix dans ces demeures justes, Où les purs dans le coeur et les anges sont. Triste coeur de la mienne, OH, oftentimeFolow les s

• Contributeur: The Reading Room / Alamy Banque D'Images
• ID de l’image: 2AX0J64
• Taille du fichier: 7,1 MB (534,8 KB Téléchargement compressé)
• Autorisations: Modèle - non | Propriété - non
• Dimensions: 1837 x 1359 px | 31,1 x 23 cm | 12,2 x 9,1 inches | 150dpi

Informations supplémentaires

Cette image appartient au domaine public, ce qui signifie que le droit d’auteur a expiré ou que le titulaire du droit d’auteur a renoncé à ses droits. Les frais facturés par Alamy couvrent l’accès à la copie haute résolution de l’image.

Cette image peut avoir des imperfections car il s’agit d’une image historique ou de reportage.

The old kitchen fire, and other poems . ips that were rosy and warm of old ! MY DEAD. 75 They have pressed against mine, Oh, oftentime.I touch them now, but I shudder with fear. 0 Death, thy signet most surely is here ;And I turn aside. Ah, well-a-day ! 1 dare not look on my coffined clay. It hath passed away, it hath passed away, That life—that life.It hath passed to regions of upper day, To dwell with God and his saints alway.Stilly, oh, stilly, in garments white, She glideth at peace in those mansions fair, Where the pure in heart and the angels are. Sad heart of mine, Oh, oftentimeFollow the saint to her blessed home, Where tears of anguish can never come ;And turn from thy dust, though treasured and blest, To the home of the ransomed, the heaven of rest. JAy p EAD. (toWough the long village street, ^Trodden by many feet, Past pleasant homes and marts of busy trade, Up the sweet Woodbine road, By orchards with their loadOf ruddy fruit or rose-hued blossoms shade. 7G THE OLD KITCHEN FIRE. - rlSi!. On through the rustic gate, At early morn and late, The dew, like tears, lies on each blade of grass ; The grass that grows on graves, And* oer them gently waves, Whispring its tale to me as on I pass. Up the broad gravelled grade, To narrow paths inlaidWith grassy steps and slopes of sunny green, With gentlest steps I tread ; I am coming to my dead, Whose headstone by that turf-clad mound is seen. MY DEAD. 77 Only the name and age, Upon that marble page, Tells to the world the story of my dead, But to my aching heart, The life-long tale impartOf him who slumbers in that narrow bed. Down in that grave so deep, As if in pleasant sleep, With folded hands and meekly closed eyes— Oh, in that lowly grave, My noble and my brave, My love, my all, in his last slumber lies. I stood beside my dead, When holy prayers were said, And earth to earth and dust to dust were given; But my dear Lord stood near, With words of solemn cheer, The Eesurrection and the Life from heaven. And now, in faith

Recherche dans la banque de photos par tags

• bookcentury1800
• bookdecade1860