Sin we have explain'd away; Unluckily, the sinners stay.
Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a Summer's day; Sweet Love is dead.
Fairies, arouse! Mix with your song Harplet and pipe, Thrilling and clear, Swarm on the boughs! Chant in a throng! Morning is ripe, Waiting to hear.
I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
History of Ireland--lawlessness and turbulency, robbery and oppression, hatred and revenge, blind selfishness everywhere--no principle, no heroism. What can be done with it?
Ring-ting! I wish I were a primrose, A bright yellow primrose blowing in the spring! The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the elm-tree for our king!
Does not the latent feeling that much of their striving is to no purpose tend to infuse large quantities of sham into men's work?
The mother's kiss is the sweetest thing ever.
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