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If you want a place in the sun, you've got to put up with a few blisters.
If you want a place in the sun, you've got to put up with a few blisters.
Such words fall to often on our cold and careless ears with the
triteness of long familiarity; but to read more
Such words fall to often on our cold and careless ears with the
triteness of long familiarity; but to Octavia . . . they seemed
to be written in sunbeams.
The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
The sun, which passeth through pollutions and itself remains as
pure as before.
The sun, which passeth through pollutions and itself remains as
pure as before.
The sun, too, shines into cesspools, and is not polluted.
The sun, too, shines into cesspools, and is not polluted.
The sun shineth upon the dunghill and is not corrupted.
The sun shineth upon the dunghill and is not corrupted.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the radiant sun,
Is Nature's eye.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the radiant sun,
Is Nature's eye.
High in his chariot glow'd the lamp of day.
High in his chariot glow'd the lamp of day.
Failing yet gracious,
Slow pacing, soon homing,
A patriarch that strolls
Through the tents read more
Failing yet gracious,
Slow pacing, soon homing,
A patriarch that strolls
Through the tents of his children,
The sun as he journeys
His round on the lower
Ascents of the blue,
Washes the roofs
And the hillsides with clarity.
