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I have a theory that it is always the women who propose to us, and not we who propose to women. Except, of course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not modern.

I don't see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then the excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty.
Daisy, Daisy, Give me your answer, do! I'm half crazy, All for the love of you! It won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage, But you'll look sweet On the seat Of a bicycle built for two!
I have nothing to offer you but my strength for your defence, my honesty for your surety, my ability and industry for your livelihood, and my authority and position for your dignity. That is all it becomes a man to offer to a woman.
I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.
To my mind, a man must choose a wife for himself, without advice from anybody. As I said to Tony before he ever proposed to this girl: Make sure that she's good, and a lady, and healthy, and intelligent, and that she's going to get on with your friends and relations, and you with hers--and then, my dear boy, if you feel that you can afford to marry--then I suppose there's no help for it.
Courtship to marriage is as a very witty prologue to a very dull play.
Court a gal for fun, for the luv yu bear her, for the vartue and bissness thare is in her; court her for a wife and for a mother, court her as yu wud court a farm--for the strength ov the sile and the parfeckshun ov the title; court her as tho she want a fule, and yu a nuther; court her in the kitchen, in the parlor, over the wash-tub, and at the pianner; court this way, yung man, and if yu don't git a good wife and she don't git a good hustband, the falt won't be in the courting.
I would rather not be engaged. When people are engaged, they begin to think of being married soon, . . . and I should like everything to go on for a long while just as it is.
AFFIANCE, pp. Fitted with an ankle-ring for the ball-and-chain.
What could he and she really know of each other, since it was his duty, as a "decent" fellow, to conceal his past from her, and hers, as a marriageable girl, to have no past to conceal? What if, for some one of the subtler reasons that would tell with both them, they should tire of each other, misunderstand or irritate each other? . . . [With] a shiver of foreboding he saw his marriage becoming what most of the other marriages about him were: a dull association of material and social interests held together by ignorance on the one side and hypocrisy on the other.
What's th' sense o' exhaustin' all th' pleasures o' life durin' th' first few months o' courtship? Why not save a few pleasures t' look forward t' after you've satisfied th' instalment houses? Marriage at best is quite a comedown fer most any girl, 'specially if her engagement period wuz one long an' riotous dream.
Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yield.
One turf shall serve as pillow for us both; One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.
It seems a pity that the good old phrase "living in sin" is likely to be dropped by the C of E. So many friends, happily living in sin, will feel very ordinary and humdrum when they become merely partners; or, as the Americans say, "an item." Living in sin has always sounded daring and exotic.
Thinking in terms of one Is easily done-- One room, one bed, one chair, One person there, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . But counting up to two Is harder to do.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far, The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.
Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight.
Some hard smokers are great workers, as we all know; but few who have watched the effect of nicotization on will and character would deny that it handicaps a man, and often pretty heavily, in the race for distinction. It encourages revery,--the contemplation of the possible, which is a charming but unwholesome substitute for the performance of the duty next at hand.
By the indulgence of a simple and harmless propensity,--of a propensity which can inflict an injury upon no person or thing except the coat and the person of him who indulges in it,--of a custom honored and observed in almost all the nations of the world,--of a custom which, far from leading a man into any wickedness or dissipation to which youth is subject, but, on the contrary, begets only benevolent silence, and thoughtful good-humored observation--I found at the age of twenty all my prospects in life destroyed.
Ernest felt now that the turning point of his life had come. He would give up all for Christ--even his tobacco. So he gathered together his pipes and pouches, and locked them up in his portmanteau under his bed where they should be out of sight, and as much out of mind as possible. He did not burn them, because someone might come in who wanted to smoke, and though he might abridge his own liberty, yet, as smoking was not a sin, there was no reason why he should be hard on other people.
I should like to say that I left off smoking because I considered it a mean form of slavery, to be condemned for moral as well as physical reasons; but though I see the folly of smoking clearly now, I was blind to it for some months after I had smoked my last pipe. I gave up my most delightful solace, as I regarded it, for no other reason than that the lady who was willing to fling herself away on me said that I must choose between it and her.
I know, I feel, that with the introduction of tobacco England woke up from a long sleep. Suddenly a new zest had been given to life. The glory of existence became a thing to speak of. Men who had hitherto only concerned themselves with the narrow things of home put a pipe into their mouths and became philosophers.
Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. We quarrelled about Havanas--we fought o'er a good cheroot, And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke.
The nicotine addict, like the opium fiend and the alcoholic, quickly loses respect for observance of laws and any personal obligations to share in cultural or civic interests.
What a weird thing smoking is and I can't stop it. I feel cosy, have a sense of well-being when I'm smoking, poisoning myself, killing myself slowly. Not so slowly maybe. I have all kinds of pains I don't want to know about and I know that's what they're from. But when I don't smoke I scarcely feel as if I'm living. I don't feel as if I'm living unless I'm killing myself.
I like you more than I would like To have a cigarette
Smoking is, if not my life, then at least my hobby. I love to smoke. Smoking is fun. Smoking is cool. Smoking is, as far as I am concerned, the entire point of being an adult. It makes growing up genuinely worthwhile. I am quite well aware of the hazards of smoking. Smoking is not a healthful pastime, it is true. Smoking is indeed no bracing dip in the ocean, no strenuous series of calisthenics, no two laps around the reservoir. On the other hand, smoking has to its advantage the fact that is a quiet pursuit. Smoking is, in effect a dignified sport.
Twelve hundred people--two jumbo jet planeloads a day of men, women, and children. Yes, innocent children, denied their bright futures, those happy moments of scoring the winning touchdowns, of high school and college graduations, marriage, parenthood, professional fulfillment, breakthroughs in engineering, medicine, economics, who know how many Nobel Prize winners? Lambs, slaughtered by Nicholas Naylor and the tobacco industry fiends he so slickly represented.
If you wish to keep your affairs secret, drink no wine. For wine causes the voice to be uplifted and secrets to be revealed.
All excess is ill; but drunkenness is of the worst sort. It spoils health, dismounts the mind, and unmans men. It reveals secrets, is quarrelsome, lascivious, impudent, dangerous, and mad. In fine, he that is drunk is not a man: because he is so long void of reason, that distinguishes a man from a beast.
Sir, I have no objection to a man's drinking wine, if he can do it in moderation. I found myself apt to go to excess in it, and therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it. Every man is to judge for himself, according to the effects which he experiences.
Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, Away with old hock and madeira! Too earthly ye are for my sport; There's a beverage brighter and clearer!
See drinkers of water, their wits never lacking, Direct as a railroad and smooth in their gaits; But look at the bibbers of wine, they go tacking, Like ships that have met a foul wind in the straights.
Men "drink" because they like it, much more than for any good they suppose it does them, beyond such pleasure as it may afford; and this is precisely the point that all arguments fail to reach. Pleasure is the bird in the hand which foolish persons will always choose before the two birds in the bush which are to be the rewards of virtue.
Who hath sorrow? Who hath woe? They who do not answer no; They whose feet to sin incline, While they tarry at the wine.
If ever I want to sign the pledge, It's the morning after I've had an edge.
If when you say "whisky" you mean the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacle of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degradation, and despair, and shame, and helplessness, and hopelessness--then certainly I am against it. But, if when you say "whisky" you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes . . . if you mean the drink that enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life's great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows . . . then certainly I am for it.
Eat a third, drink a third, and leave empty in your stomach the remaining third. If anger overtakes you, there will be room for the expansion of your stomach, and you will not suffer from apoplexy.
I think thou art in the habit of eating a great deal, and that thy power of restraining appetite is more slender than a hair, whilst an appetite such as thou nourishest would rupture a chain, and a day may come when it will tear thee up.
But temprance teacheth this, where he keepeth schoole; He that knoweth when he hath enough is no foole. Feed by measure, and defie the phisition! And in the contrarie mark this condition; A swine over fat is cause of his own bane.
When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle's talent in the waist; I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring. A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.
Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown; I am wither'd like an old apple-john.
[Temperance.] To this a spare diet contributes much. Eat therefore to live, and do not live to eat. That is like a man, but this below a beast.
Th' great national curse t'day is over-eatin'. We do not only eat too much, but we devote too much time thinkin' about eatin'. . . . Ever'where we look there's a eatin' place. . . . Wherever ther's population enough t' fill a few stools we find a great brazen coffee urn an' a stack of buns.
From the day on which she weighs 140, the chief excitement of a woman's life consists in spotting [people] who are fatter than she is.
. . . I wonder if there is a woman in the world strong-minded enough to shed ten pounds or twenty,--And say There now, that's plenty.
A big man is always accused of gluttony, whereas a wizened or osseous man can eat like a refugee at every meal, and no one ever notices his greed.
Unnecessary dieting is because everything from television to fashion ads have made it seem wicked to cast a shadow. This wild, emaciated look appeals to some women, though not to many men, who are seldom seen pinning up a Vogue illustration in a machine shop.
As you know, there are more diet books than dieters, among them the Atkins diet, the Stillman diet, the Scarsdale diet, the Zone diet, the grapefruit diet, the Drinking Man's diet, the Eating Man's diet, the Sleeping Man's diet, the Beverly Hills diet, the Akron, Ohio diet, the Mayo Clinic diet, the Hold the Mayo diet, and the latest, the Nothing But Prunes and Kaopectate diet.
Although he has "been down," as he puts it, for fourteen years, after twenty-five years of exceptional fatness, he sees himself not as a man who weighs one hundred and sixty but as a man who is constantly in danger of weighing three hundred and twenty.
She's got this real funny idea about a diet: you don't get fat if no one sees you eating.
In house to kepe houshold when folkes will needes wed, Moe things belong then foure bare legges in a bed. I reckened my wedding a suger sweete spice, But reckeners without their host must recken twice. And although it were sweet for a weeke or twaine, Sweete meate will have sowre sauce, I see now plaine.
Let endless Peace your steadfast hearts accord, And blessed Plentie wait vpon your bord; And let your bed with pleasures chast abound, That fruitfull issue may to you afford Which may your foes confound, And make your joyes redound.
Wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinquepace. The first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly- modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes Repentance and, with his bad legs, falls into the cinquepace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.
Wedding is great Juno's crown, O blessed bond of board and bed! 'Tis Hymen peoples every town; High wedlock then be honored. Honor, high honor, and renown, To Hymen, god of every town!
Honor, riches, marriage-blessing Long continuance, and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you!
Timid brides, you have, probably, hitherto been addressed as angels. Prepare for the time when you shall again become mortal.
A wedding is a licensed subject to joke upon, but there really is no great joke in the matter after all;--we speak merely of the ceremony, and beg it to be distinctly understood that we indulge in no hidden sarcasm upon a married life. Mixed up with the pleasure and joy of the occasion, are the many regrets at quitting home, the tears of parting between parent and child, the consciousness of leaving the dearest and kindest friends of the happiest portion of human life, to encounter its cares and troubles with others still untried and little known: natural feelings which we would not render this chapter mournful by describing, and which we should be still more unwilling to be supposed to ridicule.
Such days can hardly be agreeable to the man of whom it is known by all around him that he is on the eve of committing matrimony. There is always, on such occasions, a feeling of weakness, as though the man had been subdued, brought at length into a cage and tamed, so as to be made fit for domestic purposes, and deprived of his ancient freedom amongst the woods; whereas the girl feels herself to be the triumphant conqueror, who has successfully performed this great act of taming.
"It is a habit which exhibits, perhaps, the unconscious inherent cynicism of the human mind, for people who consider that they have reached the acme of mundane felicity, to distribute this token of esteem to their friends, with the object probably" (he took the knife from a waiter and went to the table to slice the cake) "of enabling those friends (these edifices require very delicate incision--each particular currant and subtle condiment hangs to its neighbour--a wedding-cake is evidently the most highly civilized of cakes, and partakes of the evils as well as the advantages of civilization!)--I was saying, they send us these love-tokens, no doubt (we shall have to weigh out the crumbs, if each is to have his fair share) that we may the better estimate their state of bliss by passing some hours in purgatory."
I think a wedding-day Looks best, as mountains do, some miles away, Or squalid fishing-smacks far out to sea, Seen lily-sailed in sunshine and blue haze, Where the delicious lights are all men chase, And no man ever reaches.
Every time I hear that march from Lohengrin, I am glad I'm on the outside looking in. I have heard a lot of married people talk, And I know that marriage is a long, long walk. To some people weddings mean romance, But I prefer a picnic or a dance.
Of all life's ceremonies that of marriage is the most touching and beautiful. This is the long anticipated climax of girlhood--and boyhood, too--the doorway to true maturity, the farewell to parents as protectors, the acceptance of responsibility.
Women often weep at weddings, whereas my own instinct is to laugh uproariously and encourage the bride and groom with merry whoops. The sight of people getting married exhilarates me; I think that they are doing a fine thing, and I admire them for it.
I toast you both, good son and dear new daughter. May you not lack for water, And may that water smack of Cana's wine.
No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace As I have seen in one autumnal face.
Autumnall Agues are long, or mortall.
The pale descending Year, yet pleasing still, A gentler Mood inspires; for now the Leaf Incessant rustles from the mournful Grove, Oft startling such as, studious, walk below, And slowly circles thro' the waving Air.
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof, there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe; And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
Yet, in these autumn days when Nature expires, Here, in these veiled scenes, I find more attractions; It is a friend's sad goodbye; it is the last smile From lips that death is going to close forever!
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes. . . .
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. . . .
He hath his autumn ports And havens of repose, when his tired wings Are folded up, and he content to look On mists in idleness: to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core.
There the ash-tree leaves do vall In the wind a-blowen cwolder, An' my childern, tall or small, Since last Fall be woone year wolder; Woone year wolder, woone year dearer.
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary.
Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers, And gone the Summer's pomp and show, And Autumn, in his leafless bowers, Is waiting for the Winter's snow.
The year is getting to feel rich, for his golden fruits are ripening fast, and he has a large balance in the barns, which are his banks. The members of his family have found out that he is well to do in the world. September is dressing herself in show of dahlias and splendid marigolds and starry zinnias. October, the extravagant sister, has ordered an immense amount of the most gorgeous forest tapestry for her grand reception.
The foliage has been losing its freshness through the month of August, and here and there a yellow leaf shows itself like the first gray hair amidst the locks of a beauty who has seen one season too many.
The air is damp, and hushed, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh repose An hour before death; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth 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.
Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet. From the ripple to run over in its mirth
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree.
Coldly, sadly, descends The autumn-evening. The field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of wither'd leaves, and the elms Fade into dimness apace, Silent;--hardly a shout From a few boys late in their play!
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.
Margaret are you grieving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leaves, like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
This was one of those perfect New England days in late summer where the spirit of autumn takes a first stealthy flight, like a spy, through the ripening country-side, and, with feigned sympathy for those who droop with August heat, puts her cool cloak of bracing air about leaf and flower and human shoulders.
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock--When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
It almost seems as if autumn were the true creator, more creative than the spring, which is too even-toned, more creative when it comes with its will-to-change and shatters the much too ready-made, self-satisfied and really almost bourgeois-complacent image of summer.
There is the moon; And white and yellow chrysanthemums; Autumn draws to its close.
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind. The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the West garden; They hurt me. I grow older.
There comes a morning, always, at this time of year when one awakes to the realisation that one's knees and the tip of one's nose are unexpectedly cold, and, still drowsy, scrabbles to regain the blankets one had flung off during the earlier part of the night; then, aroused to full consciousness, leaps from bed to gaze out of the window. What has happened? The familiar summer aspect has changed.
. . . I know that Beauty must ail and die, And will be born again,--but ah, to see Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! Oh, Autumn! Autumn!--What is the Spring to me?
You naked trees, whose shady leaues are lost, Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre: And now are clothd with mosse and hoary frost, Instede of bloosmes, wherewith your buds did flowre: I see your teares, that from your boughes doe raine, Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine.
. . . winter tames man, woman, and beast.. . .
Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude.
He that passeth a winters day escapes an enemy.
Thus Winter falls, A heavy Gloom oppressive o'er the World, Thro' Nature shedding Influence malign, And rouses up the Seeds of dark Disease. The Soul of Man dies in him, loathing Life, And black with more than melancholy Views.
My bones Feel the quilts; A frosty night
"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter day Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine!
The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud--and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings. . . .
The English winter--ending in July, To recommence in August.
As an earthquake rocks a corse In its coffin in the clay, So White Winter, that rough nurse, Rocks the death-cold Year to-day; Solemn Hours! wail aloud For your mother in her shroud.
The ice-bound floods that still with rigour freeze The snow clothd valley and the naked tree These sympathising scenes my heart can please Distress is theirs--and they resemble me.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! Let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!
When there is nothing left of the winter snow but these ridges behind the stone walls, and a dingy drift here and there in a hollow, or in the woods, Winter has virtually resigned the icicle which is his sceptre.
Here comes Winter, savage as when he met the Pilgrims at Plymouth, Indian all over, his staff a naked splintery hemlock, his robe torn from the backs of bears and bisons, and fringed with wampum of rattling icicles, turning the ground he treads to ringing iron, and, like a mighty sower, casting his snow far and wide, over all hills and valleys and plains.
The frost is here, And fuel is dear, And woods are sear, And fires burn clear, And frost is here And has bitten the heel of the going year.
The best fire in winter is made up of exercise, and the poorest of whiskey. He that keeps warm on liquor is like a man who pulls his house to pieces to feed the fireplace.
There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons--That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes--Heavenly Hurt, it gives us--We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are--
The boughs, the boughs are bare enough But earth has never felt the snow. Frost-furred our ivies are and rough With bills of rime the brambles shew The hoarse leaves crawl on hissing ground Because the sighing wind is low.
When will you cease, O dismal days? When will you set me free? For the frozen world and its desolate ways Are all unloved of me!
Winter is icummen in, Lhude sing Goddamm, Raineth drop and staineth slop, And how the wind doth ramm!
Midwinter spring is its own season Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown, Suspended in time, between pole and tropic. When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire, The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches, In windless cold that is the heart's heat.
I leave this year as a man leaves wine, Remembering the summer, bountiful, the good fall, the months mellow and full. I sit in the northern room, in the dusk, the death of a year, And watch it go down in thunder.
That time of year you may in me behold When Christmas trees are blazing on the walk, Raging against stable snow and the cold And low sky's bundled wash, deadwhite as chalk.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school.
I should, in fact, be averse to boarding-schools, if it were for no other reason than the unsettled state of mind which the expectation of the vacations produce. On these the children's thoughts are fixed with eager anticipating hopes, for, at least, to speak with moderation, half of the time, and when they arrive they are spent in total dissipation and beastly indulgence.
Well do I remember how, on the last day of the holidays, I used always to rise early, and think that I had got twelve more whole hours of happiness, and how those hours used to pass me with mercifully slow feet. . . . Three more hours! . . . Sixty more minutes! . . . Five! . . .
Life at a vile boarding school is in this way a good preparation for the Christian life, that it teaches one to live by hope. Even, in a sense, by faith; for at the beginning of each term, home and the holidays are so far off that it is as hard to realize them as to realize heaven. Tomorrow's geometry blots out the distant end of term as tomorrow's operation may blot out the hope of Paradise.
On the first day of school, my children said to me, "Aren't you glad that our education's free?"
Autumn has become my favorite time of year. It took a while for negative associations with the beginning of the school year to wane, for the golden sunlight and foliage to stop conjuring up the intestinal butterflies that went along with similarly toned school buses lurching down the street.
I should be inclined to say that as plants are stifled with too much moisture, and lamps with too much oil, so too much study and matter stifles the action of the mind, which, being caught and entangled in a great variety of things, may lose the ability to break loose, and be kept bent and huddled down by its burden.
Oh! might my ill-past hours return again! No more, as then, should Sloth around me throw Her soul-enslaving, leaden chain! No more the precious time would I employ In giddy revells, or in thoughtless joy, A present joy producing future woe. But o'er the midnight Lamp I'd love to pore, I'd seek with care fair Learning's depths to sound, And gather scientific Lore.
When coughs are changed to laughs, and when Our frowns melt into smiles of glee, And all our blood thaws out again In streams of ecstasy, And poets wreak their roundelay, The Spring is coming round this way.
March is no land of extremes. Dull as life, It offers small flowers and minor holidays.
Some there are who grudge thee the honour of the month, and would snatch it from thee, Venus. For they say that April was named from the open (apertum) season, because spring then opens (aperit) all things, and the sharp frost-bound cold departs, and earth unlocks her teeming soil, though kindly Venus claims the month and lays her hand on it.
Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendered is the flour: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.
It is now April, and the nightingale begins to tune her throat against May. The sunny showers perfume the air and the bees begin to go abroad for honey. The dew, as in pearls, hangs upon the tops of the grass, while the turtles sit billing upon the little green boughs. . . . It were a world to set down the worth of this month, but in sum, I thus conclude: I hold it the heaven's blessing and the earth's comfort.
O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away.
'Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music!
The April winds are magical, And thrill our tuneful frames; The garden-walks are passional To bachelors and dames.
Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.
Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf.
Ah, but I know, for never April's shine, Nor passion gust of rain, nor all her flowers Scattered in haste, were seen so sudden fine As she in various mood, on whom the powers Of happiest stars in fair conjunction smiled To bless the birth of April's darling child.
Bare twigs in April enhance our pleasure; We know the good time is yet to come. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bare twigs in Autumn are signs for sadness; We feel the good time is well-nigh past.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
'Tis April again in my garden, again the grey stone-wall Is prankt with yellow alyssum and lilac aubrey-cresses; Half-hidden the mavis caroleth in the tassely birchen tresses And awhile on the sunny air a cuckoo tuneth his call.
O April, full of blood, full of breath, have pity upon us! Pale, where the winter like a stone has been lifted away, we emerge like yellow grass. Be for a moment quiet, buffet us not, have pity upon us, Till the green come back into the vein, till the giddiness pass.
I incline to think that the elders [maiores] gave their own name to the month of May: they considered the interests of their own class. . . . No slight proof of the proposed honour is furnished by the next month, the month of June, which is named after young men [juvenes ].
Is not thilke the mery moneth of May, When loue lads masken in fresh aray? How falles it then, we no merrier bene, Ylike as other, girt in gawdy greene? Our bloncket liueryes bene all to sadde, For thilke same season, when all is ycladd With pleasaunce.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna! come, let's goe a Maying.
Hee that is in a towne in May loseth his spring.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire Mirth and youth and warm desire!
We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts today Feel the gladness of the May!
May is lilac here in New England, May is a thrush singing "Sun up!" on a tip-top ash-tree, May is white clouds behind pine-trees Puffed out and marching upon a blue sky. May is a green as no other, May is much sun through small leaves, May is soft earth, And apple-blossoms, And windows open to a South wind.
May is a perfect time to be in Tuscany--a time when it's still not too hot for a contessa to spend some time next to the pool, gazing approvingly over the vineyards that surround her.
Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for.

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