 | California - 1925 - 488 pages
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 | 1908 - 730 pages
...benumbed conceiving soars ; The drift of pinions, would we harken, Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. The angels keep their ancient places — Turn but...'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces, That miss the many-splendored thing. But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) Cry: and upon thy so sore loss Shall... | |
 | Religion - 1914 - 540 pages
...conceiving soars ! — The drift of pinions, would we hearken, Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors ! The angels keep their ancient places : — Turn but...'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces, That miss the many-splendour'd thing. But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) Cry ; — and upon thy so sore loss... | |
 | Literature - 1908 - 860 pages
...benumbed conceiving soars; The drift of pinions, would we harken. Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. The angels keep their ancient places — Turn but...'Tis ye. 'tis your estranged faces. That miss the many-splendored thing. But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) Cry; and upon thy so sore loss Shall... | |
 | Theosophy - 1912 - 866 pages
...benumbed conceiving soars! — The drift of pinions, would we hrrken, Beats at our clay-shuttered doors. The angels keep their ancient places; — Turn but...'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces, That miss the many-splendored thing. But (when so sad, thou canst not sadder) Cry; — and upon thy so sore loss... | |
 | Francis Thompson - English poetry - 1908 - 176 pages
...conceiving soars! — The drift of pinions, would we hearken, Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. The angels keep their ancient places; — Turn but...many-splendoured thing. But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) Cry; — and upon thy so sore loss Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder Pitched betwixt... | |
 | English poetry - 1910 - 332 pages
...benumbed conceiving soars; The drift of pinions would we hearken, Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. The angels keep their ancient places;— Turn but...many-splendoured thing. But (when so sad thou canst not sadder), Cry:—and upon thy so sore loss Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder Pitched between... | |
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The angels keep their ancient places; Turn but a stone and start a wing! 'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces, That miss the many-splendoured thing. 
