Identifier: cu31924022015287 (find matches)
Title: A poet's cabinet, being passages, mainly poetical
Year: 1914 (1910s)
Authors: Raymond, George Lansing, 1839-1929 Miller, Marion Mills, 1864-1949
Subjects:
Publisher: New York (etc.) G. P. Putnam's sons
Contributing Library: Cornell University Library
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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Text Appearing Before Image:
Chased by the hot breath of a coming storm
That clang'd his thunder-bugle through the west.
When once the rude gust hit the moon, it tipt—
Or so it seem'd—and with a deafening peal
It spilt one blinding flash. Then, where this lit,
Just in the path before me gleamd a knife!
Held oer a form of white! To see the thing
I scream'd aloud. It seem'd a ghost!
Haydn, XXXI.

MORAL EQUAL
My soul demands in one whom I obey
A moral equal, at the least.
Columbus, I., 3.

MORBID
They call me morbid— if they mean
I hate the wrong, wherever seen;
And make supreme my own ideal;
And grieve to find it not made real;
I hail the name. No titles go
From earth to bias heaven, I trow.
Men's normal moods may sink and swell
At one with tides that drift to hell.
A Life in Song: Doubting, IX.

MOTHER
How oft in the night, mid the winds wild sweep
Through the leaf-hung trees, or the spray-flung deep,
My eye sees not, but a light will gleam
Like an angel-face in an angel-dream;
And back through the years
My hush'd soul hears
The call of a tone
Text Appearing After Image:


With cravings pale
For church and stole and sermons of my own.
See page 301.

SELECTED QUOTATIONS 257

Like the spirits own;
And I feel the press
Of a lost caress,
And of lips that bear
Both a kiss and a prayer
For my cheeks that glow as my pulses thrill.
Ah, is it a wonder my eye should fill?
I feel, whatever my life may be,
That one in the past had love for me;
When, dear as a boon from a realm of the blest.
My soul was press'd
To my mothers breast.
Idem, Loving, VI.

MOTHERHOOD
She hints—not so?—that truest womanhood
Is maidenhood?—By Eve and Mary, false!—
The mother lives the model of her sex,
And not the maid. Haydn, XLII.
The tender plant that springs to the air
From the small frail urn of youth
Is trained, if at all, by a woman's care
For the flowering and fruitage of truth.
Each home is an Eden that owns an Eve
Whose deeds make all life joy or grieve.
Love and Life, VII.

MOTHS VS. WORMS
More blest the short-lived moths that fly to flame
Straight through a pathway lit by coming light
Than long-lived worms that crawl thro' endless mire.
The Aztec God, I.

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