Bono: the voice of innocence and experience
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In futurity I prophetic see That the earth from sleep Grave the sentence deep Shall arise and seek For her maker meek; And the desart wild Become a garden mild.

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In the southern clime, Where the summer's prime Never fades away, Lovely Lyca lay. Seven summers old Lovely Lyca told; She had wander'd long Hearing wild birds' song. Do father, mother. Where can Lyca sleep! How can Lyca sleep If her mother weep! The kingly lion stood, And the virgin view'd, Then he gambol'd round O'er the hallow'd ground.

Leopards, tygers, play Round her as she lay, While the lion old Bow'd his mane of gold And her bosom lick. And upon her neck From his eyes of flame Ruby tears there came; While the lioness Loos'd her slender dress. And naked they convey'd To caves the sleeping maid. The Little Girl Found.

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All the night in woe Lyca's parents go Over vallies deep. While the desarts weep. Tired and woe-begone. Hoarse with making moan, Arm in arm seven days They trac'd the desart ways. Seven nights they sleep Among shadows deep. And dream they see their child Starv'd in desart wild. Pale, thro' pathless ways The fancied image strays. Famish'd, weeping, weak, With hollow piteous shriek. Rising from unrest, The trembling woman prest With feel of weary woe: She could no further go. In his arms he bore Her, arm'd with sorrow sore; Till before their way A couching lion lay.

Turning back was vain: Soon his heavy mane Bore them to the ground. Then he stalk'd around. Smelling to his prey; But their fears allay When he licks their hands, And silent by them stands. Tbey look upon his eyes Fill'd with deep surprise; And wondering behold A Spirit arm'd in gold.

On his head a crown; On his shoulders down Flow'd his golden hair. Gone was all their care. Tn this day they dwell In a lonely dell; Nor fear the wolvish howl Nor the lions' growl. O do not walk so fast. Speak, father, speak to your little boy, Or else I shall be lost.

The little boy lost in the lonely fen. Led by the wand'ring light, Began to cry; but God, ever nigh. Appear'd like his father, in white. And to his mother brought, Who in sorrow pale, thro' the lonely dale.

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Her little boy weeping sought. Sweet dreams form a shade O'er my lovely infant's head; Sweet dreams of pleasant streams By happy, silent, moony beams. Sweet sleep with soft down Weave thy brows an infant crown. Sweet sleep, Angel mild, Hover o'er my happy child. Sweet smiles in the night Hover over my delight; Sweet smiles, Mother's smiles, All the livelong night beguiles. Sweet moans.

Sweet moans, sweeter smiles, All the dovelike moans beguiles. Sleep sleep, happy child, All creation slept and smil'd; Sleep sleep, happy sleep. While o'er thee thy mother weep. Sweet babe, in thy face Holy image I can trace. Sweet babe, once like thee, Thy maker lay and wept for me,. Wept for me, for thee, for all, When he was an infant small.

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Thou his image ever see, Heavenly face that smiles on thee, Smiles on thee, on me, on all; Who becarne an infant small. Sound the Flute! Now it's mute. Birds delight Day and Night; Nightingale In the dale. Lark in Sky. Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, to welcome in the Year. Little Boy, Full of joy;. Merry Merry Sparrow! Under leaves so green.

Bono: the voice of innocence and experience

Pretty Pretty Robin! Near my Bosom. Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? We are called by his name. Little Lamb, God bless thee! The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest. And I must seek for mine. The moon like a flower. In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have took delight; Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing.

And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom. They look in every thoughtless nest, Where birds are cover'd warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm; If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping They pour sleep on their head And sit down by their bed. When wolves and tygers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep; Seeking to drive their thirst away. And keep them from the sheep. But if they rush dreadful, The angels, most heedful, Recieve each mild spirit, New worlds to inherit. And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold.

And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold, Saying "Wrath, by his meekness, And, by his health, sickness Is driven away From our immortal day.

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This is such a simple love story yet special where the lovers are torn apart by tragedy an This book gave me a LOT of feels. They are a perfect couple, but their world gets torn apart with Corbin is convicted of murder. Lindsay Detwiler. Evidently such questions have been solved in different ways during history and have been discussed over and over again. Children and Childhood in Western Society since Episodes: 89 Length: 1 hour or more. Omensetter's Luck, novel.

For, wash'd in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold As I guard o'er the fold. Title Page. Introduction Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: "Pipe a song about a Lamb! The Shepherd How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot!

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Infant Joy "I have no name: 1 am but two days old. The School Boy I love to rise in a summer morn When the birds sing on every tree; The distant huntsman winds his horn, And the sky-lark sings with me. However, some people feel they cannot. Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem that is unfortunately used more often than it should.

Therefore, I want to challenge you all to make every day suicide prevention day. Do your best to listen and understand what it means to be suicidal. Express your support as often as you can. Even through something as simple as a tweet or a text to someone who is struggling. The smallest acts of kindness and support make a world of difference. Extend a hand and show your support, every day of the year.

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Call it idealistic, call it simplified, call it whatever you want. From a teen who spent half of her life in the grips of mental illness and nearly became a statistic, I call it amiracle, soproud, forevergrateful. On social media, my profile picture remains the same. No Comments 3 0 0. Leave a Reply Cancel Reply My comment is.. Subscribe To Our Newsletter.