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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 231 |
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Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing,— And still, O still their dying breath is sweet; And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us •A nearer good to cure an older ill; And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them, Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them !
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EEK not the tree of silkiest bark And balmiest bud, To carve her name while yet 'tis dark Upon the wood! The world is full of noble tasks And wreaths hard won : Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands, Till day is done.
Sing not that violet-veined skin, That cheek's pale roses, The lily of that form wherein Her soul reposes ! Forth to the fight, true man ! true knight!
The clash of arms Shall more prevail than whispered tale, To win her charms.
The warrior for the True, the Right,
Fights in Love's name; The love that lures thee from that fight
Lures thee to shame: |
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