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Exits and Entrances: A Book of Essays and Sketches (Classic Reprint)
Charles Warren Stoddard
Náhled není k dispozici. - 2017
Exits and Entrances: A Book of Essays and Sketches
Charles Warren Stoddard
Náhled není k dispozici. - 2015
appeared began believe blue Brags Bret Harte California called chamber clock close cloud comes corner court dark deep delight door dream dropped early English entered everything evidently eyes face feel fire floor followed friends garden Gordon grew half hall hand head heard heart hope hour interest island Italy Josie knew land leaves letter light lived London looked lost Mark mind moment moon morning mystery nature never night once passed perhaps picture play poet possible probably returned roof season seemed shadow side smoke song soul spirit stood street sure sweet thing thought took town turned voice Wallis walls week whole window wonder young
Strana 37 - REQUIEM 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.
Strana 23 - If you like to touch on Otto, any day in a by-hour, you may tell them — as the author's last dying confession — that it is a strange example of the difficulty of being ideal in an age of realism; that the unpleasant giddymindedness, which spoils the book and often gives it a wanton air of unreality and juggling with airbells...
Strana 121 - Do you hear, let them be well used, for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time : after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
Strana 33 - ... seafarers and sealovers like yourselves. And at least here is a dedication from a great way off; written by the loud shores of a subtropical island near upon ten thousand miles from Boscombe Chine and Manor: scenes which rise before me as I write, along with the faces and voices of my friends.
Strana 17 - I have visited him in a lonely lodging— it was previous to his happy marriage— and found him submerged in billows of bedclothes; about him floated the scattered volumes of a complete set of Thoreau; he was preparing an essay on that worthy, and he looked at the moment like a halfdrowned man — yet he was not cast down. His work, an endless task, was better than a straw to him. It was to become his lifepreserver and to prolong his years. I feel convinced that without it he must have surrendered...
Strana 178 - The grass was green above the dead boy's grave, and trodden by feet so small and light, that not a daisy drooped its head beneath their pressure. Through all the spring and summer time, garlands of fresh flowers, wreathed by infant hands, rested...
Strana 249 - One day I found him pacing the floor of his office in the United States Branch Mint; he was knitting his brows and staring at vacancy, — I wondered why. He was watching and waiting for a word, the right word, the one word of all others to fit into a line of recently written prose. I suggested one ; it would not answer ; it must be a word of two syllables, or the natural rhythm of the sentence would suffer. Thus he perfected his prose.
Strana 241 - ... he bore a charmed life. Probably his youth was his salvation, for he ran a thousand risks, yet seemed only to gain in health and spirits...
Strana 179 - There, underneath the boughs, mark where the gleam Of sunrise thro' the roofing's chasm is thrown Upon a grassy plot below, whereon The shadow of a stag stoops to the stream, Swift rolling toward the cataract, and drinks. Throughout the day unceasingly it drinks, While ever and anon the nightingale, Not waiting for the evening, swells his hymn — His one sustained and heaven-aspiring tone — And when the sun hath vanished utterly, Arm over arm the cedars spread their shade, RH Home 261 With arching...
Strana 242 - ... and it was no more tolerable then than it is now. The vicissitudes of Bret Harte were destined to become his stock in trade, and when he returned to San Francisco, and somehow drifted into the composing-room of the then famous paper, The Golden Era, he naturally began to contribute to its columns. The Golden Era was the cradle and the grave of many a high hope, — there was nothing to be compared with it that side of the Mississippi...