Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=386670" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In Memoriam—Rev. J. J. Lyons</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">ROSH-HASHANAH, 5638.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The golden harvest-tide is here, the corn<br>Bows its proud tops beneath the reaper's hand.<br>Ripe orchards' plenteous yields enrich the land;<br>Bring the first fruits and offer them this morn,<br>With the stored sweetness of all summer hours,<br>The amber honey sucked from myriad flowers,<br>And sacrifice your best first fruits to-day,<br>With fainting hearts and hands forespent with toil,<br>Offer the mellow harvest's splendid spoil,<br>To Him who gives and Him who takes away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bring timbrels, bring the harp of sweet accord,<br>And in a pleasant psalm your voice attune,<br>And blow the cornet greeting the new moon.<br>Sing, holy, holy, holy, is the Lord,<br>Who killeth and who quickeneth again,<br>Who woundeth and who healeth mortal pain,<br>Whose hand afflicts us, and who sends us peace.<br>Hail thou slim arc of promise in the West,<br>Thou pledge of certain plenty, peace, and rest.<br>With the spent year, may the year's sorrows cease.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For there is mourning now in Israel,<br>The crown, the garland of the branching tree<br>Is plucked and withered. Ripe of years was he.<br>The priest, the good old man who wrought so well<br>Upon his chosen globe. For he was one<br>Who at his seed-plot toiled through rain and sun.<br>Morn found him not as one who slumbereth,<br>Noon saw him faithful, and the restful night<br>Stole o'er him at his labors to requite<br>The just man's service with the just man's death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What shall be said when such as he do pass?<br>Go to the hill-side, neath the cypress-trees,<br>Fall midst that peopled silence on your knees,<br>And weep that man must wither as the grass.<br>But mourn him not, whose blameless life complete<br>Rounded its perfect orb, whose sleep is sweet,<br>Whom we must follow, but may not recall.<br>Salute with solemn trumpets the New Year,<br>And offer honeyed fruits as were he here,<br>Though ye be sick with wormwood and with gall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Emma+Lazarus">Emma Lazarus</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=386670" data-title="In Memoriam—Rev. J. J. Lyons de Emma Lazarus" data-description="ROSH-HASHANAH, 5638.

The golden harvest-tide is here, the corn
Bows its proud tops beneath the reaper's hand.
Ripe orchards' plenteous yields enrich the land;
Bring the first fruits and offer them this morn,
With the stored sweetness of all summe..."></div>
</div>
</div>