There is a low and lonely place of rest,
Upon whose couch the worn and wearied frame
A violet grew by the river-side,
And gladdened all hearts with its bloom;
The Plains lay bare on the homeward route,
And the march was heavy on man and brute;
As in the gardens, all through May, the rose,
Lovely, and young, and fair apparelled,
Yes, Ethiopia yet shall stretch
Her bleeding hands abroad;
Mother, mother! my heart is wild, Hold me upon your bosom dear,
We read of kings and gods that kindly took
A pitcher fill'd with water from the brook ;
I shall soon fall prey to rot.
Though it's hard to die, it's good to die;
All coiled down, an' it's time for us to go;
Every sail's furled in a neat harbour stow;
Si en tus recuerdos ves algún día entre la niebla de lo pasado
Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at life’s end, I have set on the face of Death in trust for thee.
Death, rock me asleep,
Bring me to quiet rest,
The mountain road goes up and down
From Gundagai to Tumut Town.
Thou art gone, and the brilliant light that shone
In the track of thy way is fled;
What of this house with massive walls
And small-paned windows, gay with blooms?
He faints with hope and fear. It is the hour.
Distant, across the thundering organ-swell,
Little winds of dawn come gently to them,
All the living stars, the other stars.
For fifty years, Cruel, insatiable Old World.
Yes! there are real mourners -- I have seen
A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
O, how sad!
Why of visitors
A woman wanders through the fields
And idly makes a daisy-chain.
Try and don't let me grieve. Come and try to extinguish
This wild onslaught of sadness that rumbles like mercury in Torricellian void.
I was a friend, On this sad stone a pious look bestow,
Nor uninstructed read this tale of woe;
In a garden where the may made the straggling fences gay
And the roses cream and scarlet shed their petals on the breeze
In the zunsheen of our zummers Wi’ the hay time now a-come,
shaam hotii hai sahar hotii hai ye vaqt-e-ravaa.N
jo kabhii mere sar pe sang-garaa.N ban ke giraa
¡Penas! ¿Quién osa decir
Que tengo yo penas? Luego,
The church is overthrown; our mighty men are slain;
The town hall lies in dust; our towers burn;
Nay, Inez, no more persuade;
Those are sounds that to glory should move:
When I am sitting at the window,
Through the panes, which the snow blurs,
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