Thy shrunk voice sounds too calmly, sanely woful
"Sweet the song, the story sweet, There is no man hearkens it, No man living 'neath the sun, So outwearied, so foredone, Sick and woful
, worn and sad, But is healed, but is glad
"Verily it is neither-but beware how thou lettest the rope slip too rapidly through thy fingers; for should the wicker-work chance to hang on the projection of Yonder crag, there will be a woful
outpouring of the holy things of the sanctuary."
He was a comical sight, striving to fan into flame the cold ashes of his youth, to resurrect his strength dead and gone through the oozing of the years--making woful
faces in place of the ferocious ones he intended, grinding his worn teeth together, beating his meagre chest with feeble fists.
"Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with a deep sigh, and a face of woful
had been some attempts latterly to renew those evenings, when my mother might be brought to the verge of them, as if some familiar echo called her, but where she was she did not clearly know, because the past was roaring in her ears like a great sea.
But I watched the girl, and her pantomime was so illuminating that I knew the sufferer had again cleaned the platter on Tuesday, had attempted a boiled egg on Wednesday (you should have seen Irene chipping it in Pall Mall, and putting in the salt), but was in a woful
state of relapse on Thursday.
With her woful
eyes, so haggard and wild, so heavy and large, she looked all round the room, and passed the corner where he slept in his chair.
I heard a noise just over my head, like the clapping of wings, and then began to perceive the woful
condition I was in; that some eagle had got the ring of my box in his beak, with an intent to let it fall on a rock, like a tortoise in a shell, and then pick out my body, and devour it: for the sagacity and smell of this bird enables him to discover his quarry at a great distance, though better concealed than I could be within a two-inch board.
Truly, as Endicott had said, the poor lovers stood in a woful
Now, Faustus, come, prepare thyself for mirth: The sleepy Cardinals are hard at hand, To censure Bruno, that is posted hence, And on a proud-pac'd steed, as swift as thought, Flies o'er the Alps to fruitful Germany, There to salute the woful
If care of our descent perplex us most, Which must be born to certain woe, devourd By Death at last, and miserable it is To be to others cause of misery, Our own begotten, and of our Loines to bring Into this cursed World a woful
Race, That after wretched Life must be at last Food for so foule a Monster, in thy power It lies, yet ere Conception to prevent The Race unblest, to being yet unbegot.