- King, A. Robert (music) ; MacDonald, Ballard (lyric).
Shapiro, Bernstein & Co., New York, 1919, Wraps, , , Very Good
3 pp. 9 X 12 inches. A bump to one corner and a spot of foxing, very good. ''Once in a while there's a fragrance rare, Bringing a lingering vision fair, . . .'' Voice and piano.
The Society for the History of Authorship, Reading and Publishing was founded to create a global network for book historians working in a broad range of scholarly disciplines. Research addresses the composition, mediation, reception, survival, and transformation of written communication in material forms from marks on stone to new media. Perspectives range from the individual reader to the transnational communication network. With more than a thousand members in over forty countries, SHARP works in concert with affiliated academic organizations around the world to support the study of book history in all its forms.
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Night is the time for rest; How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams; The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems, Blend in fantastic strife; Ah! visions, less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are! Night is the time for toil; To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil Its wealthy furrows yield; Till all is ours that sages taught, That poets sang, or heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of Memory, where sleep The joys of other years; Hopes, that were Angels at their birth, But perished young, like things of earth. Night is the time to watch; O'er ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the homesick mind All we have loved and left behind. Night is the time for care; Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of Despair Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, "midst his slumbering host, Summoned to die by Caesar's ghost. Night is the time to think; When, from the eye, the soul Takes flight; and, on the utmost brink, Of yonder starry pole Descries beyond the abyss of night The dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray; Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away; So will his followers do, - Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And hold communion there with God. Night is the time for Death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease, Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends; - such death be mine!James Montgomery [1771-1854]