St. Martin's Summer
Ticknor and Fields, 1866 - 442 páginas
In 1918 South Dakota, Lilly Clark speaks her mind -- even to her neighbor's chagrin. When a immigrant is being persecuted for the war raging overseas, how can she stand by and not come to his rescue? Can this independent woman surrender her desires to her heavenly Father and her heart to the joy of romance?
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Página 392 - And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs ; And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, — Came in slow pomp ; — the moving pomp might seem Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.
Página 305 - twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old ! — The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
Página 173 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale ; look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops; I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Página 15 - To me, and to the state of my great grief, Let kings assemble ; for my grief's so great, That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up : here I and sorrow sit ; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
Página 202 - O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim...
Página 95 - O well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on, To the haven under the hill ; But 0 for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, 0 sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
Página 203 - While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
Página 216 - Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.