The Harvest of a Quiet Eye: A Book of DigressionsHoughton Mifflin, 1927 - 282 Seiten |
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Amsterdam Avenue Andrew Marvell ash trees asked asters beauty beside Bibury blue boughs brook Canaan Mountain cardinal flower climb clouds color Connecticut dark deep deeper dogs dream earth England eyes Fairford feel feet forest goldenrod granite grass half Headstone hear heard heart hermit thrush hills hour human hundred Israel Putnam John Keats knew lane leaves light little town living look maple miles mind minutes morning Mountain never night Norfolk nuthatch once perhaps pine poets Pomfret pool quiet rambler READER remember river road round running seemed seen shadow shining singing slope Smittie song sound Stafford Springs standing stone wall stream sunshine talk tedium things thought tiny tion to-day told trout two-twenty-three valley walk walking-stick watch wind Windsor Locks wings WITENAGEMOT wonder wood
Beliebte Passagen
Seite 141 - Wisdom's self Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude ; Where, with her best nurse, Contemplation, She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings, That in the various bustle of resort Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd. He that has light within his own clear breast, May sit i...
Seite 203 - But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
Seite 255 - Others apart sat on a hill retired, In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned high Of Providence, Foreknowledge, Will, and Fate— Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute — And found no end, in wandering mazes lost.
Seite 11 - Give me the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours' march to dinner — and then to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy.
Seite 204 - ... eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive.
Seite 120 - Think me not unkind and rude That I walk alone in grove and glen; I go to the god of the wood To fetch his word to men. Tax not my sloth that I Fold my arms beside the brook; Each cloud that floated in the sky Writes a letter in my book.
Seite 80 - Bees and butterflies in the cornfields at the top of the town, who desired to get to the meads at the bottom, took no circuitous course, but flew straight down High Street without any apparent consciousness that they were traversing strange latitudes. And in autumn airy spheres of thistledown floated into the same street, lodged upon the shop fronts, blew into drains; and innumerable tawny and yellow leaves skimmed along the pavement, and stole through people's doorways into their passages with a...
Seite 117 - Wondering, circle-wise and mute, Round some remote Sicilian flute? I think that they have gazed across The dazzle of Ionian seas From the green capes of Tenedos Or wave-washed Cyclades, And wandered through the twilight down The hills that gird some Attic town Dim-shining in the purple gloam Beside the whispering of pale foam. What dream is this? I know the croft, Deep in this vale, where they were born; I know their wind-swept fields aloft Among the waving com.