The Bibelot (Volume 8); A Reprint of Poetry and Prose for Book Lovers, Chosen in Part from Scarce Editions and Sources Not Generally Known (Paperback)

Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: the ever present question: the destitution and sordid misery ichich no man or generation of men has yet made tolerahle. The Light that has revealed itself to so many other dying eyes shone at last into the eyes of Doris:?a helief underlying the still wider hope that "God's greatness flows around our incompleteness, Round our restlessness His rest." For June: Sonnets Of The Wingless Hours By Eugene Lee-hamilton. Augustus Jessopp, D. D. Doris is dead ? really dead! Not " dead ere her prime," for she had known the glories of more than eighty summers, and the blaze of their sunlight had not tanned her cheek nor much dimmed the fire of her glowing eye. Grown men and women who had all their lives felt a shrinking fear of Doris found it hard to believe that she had verily and indeed breathed her last. The immense, exuberant vitality of the woman, her audacity, her wicked joyousness, her ready caustic tongue, her terrible beauty, her immeasurable self-reliance, had made her name and her presence a dread to little children in our streets and lanes. " Somehow we were all afraid of Doris years ago," men say: " we got out of her way; we ran and hid from her. Is she really dead ?" Yes, dead at last ! Even Doris. I am ? I know not how or why ? I am constrained to speak of Doris. Why have great painters, time and again, taken brush in hand and ? fascinated, possessed, by some ghastly image that would not pass from them night or day ?found no rest till they put the haunting face upon the canvas ? left it thereto awake a shudder of horror or disgust for all who should gaze hereafter upon it ? Who of us has not felt angered now and then by such ghastly pictures ? I need not name them ? and found himself exclaiming, " This is too revolting; it is the prostitution of art" ? Well...