The East Window, and The Car Window

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A.A. Knopf, 1924 - 224 Seiten
 

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Seite 51 - And she may still exist in undiminished vigour when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul's.
Seite 29 - If a man can write a better book, preach a better sermon, or make a better mousetrap than his neighbor, though he builds his house in the woods, the world will make a beaten path to his door.
Seite 124 - UNDER the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.
Seite 51 - I'll not hurt thee," says my Uncle Toby, rising from his chair, and going across the room with the fly in his hand. " I'll not hurt a hair of thy head. Go," says he, liftin<* up the sash, and opening his hand as he spoke to let it escape.
Seite 112 - The ashes of an oak in the chimney, are no epitaph- of that oak, to tell me how high or how large that was : it tells me not what flocks it sheltered while it stood, nor what men it hurt when it fell. The dust of great persons' graves is speechless too ; it says nothing, it distinguishes nothing.
Seite 129 - Ay, now am I in Arden ; the more fool I : when I was at home, I was in a better place : but travellers must be content.
Seite 123 - A wind sways the pines, And below Not a breath of wild air ; Still as the mosses that glow On the flooring and over the lines Of the roots here and there. The pine-tree drops its dead ; They are quiet, as under the sea. Overhead, overhead Rushes life in a race, As the clouds the clouds chase ; And we go, And we drop like the fruits of the tree, Even we, Even so.
Seite 37 - Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
Seite 113 - The dust of great persons' graves is speechless too, it says nothing, it distinguishes nothing: as soon the dust of a wretch whom thou wouldest not, as of a prince whom thou couldest not look upon, will trouble thine eyes, if the wind blow it thither; and when a whirl-wind hath blown the dust of the churchyard into the church, and the man sweeps out the dust of the church into the churchyard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and to pronounce, This is the patrician, this is the noble...
Seite 39 - A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

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