Summer Quotes - page 41
Pure as the snow the summer sun
Never at noon hath look'd upon, -
Deep, as is the diamond wave,
Hidden in the desart cave, -
Changeless, as the greenest leaves
Of the wreath the cypress weaves, -
Hopeless, often, when most fond,
Without hope or fear beyond
Its own pale fidelity, -
And this woman's love can be!
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
[Alvine] 'Tis one of those bright fictions that have made
The name of Greece only another word
For love and poetry ; with a green earth-
Groves of the graceful myrtle - summer skies,
Whose stars are mirror'd in ten thousand streams-
Winds that move but in perfume and in music,
And, more than all, the gift of woman's beauty.
What marvel that the earth, the sky, the sea,
Were filled with all those fine imaginings
That love creates, and that the lyre preserves !
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
To love, to be beloved again, and know
A gulf between us:-aye, 'tis misery!
This agony of passion, this wild faith,
Whose constancy is fruitless, yet is kept
Inviolate:-to feel that all life's hope,
And light, and treasure, clings to one from whom
Our wayward doom divides us. Better far
To weep o'er treachery or broken vows,-
For time may teach their worthlessness:-or pine
With unrequited love;-there is a pride
In the fond sacrifice-the cheek may lose
Its summer crimson; but at least the rose
Has withered secretly-at least, the heart
That has been victim to its tenderness,
Has sighed unechoed by some one as true,
As wretched as itself.
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Race of the rainbow wing, the deep blue eye
Whose palace was the bosom of a flower;
Who rode upon the breathing of the rose ;
Drank from the harebell ; made the moon the queen
Of their gay revels ; and whose trumpets were
The pink-veined honeysuckle; and who rode
Upon the summer butterfly : who slept
Lulled in the sweetness of the violet's leaves,-
Where are ye now ? And ye of eastern tale,
With your bright palaces, your emerald halls ;
Gardens whose fountains were of liquid gold ;
Trees with their ruby fruit and silver leaves,-
Where are ye now ?
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
The history of most fictions would be far stranger than the fictions themselves ; but it would be a dark and sad chronicle. Half the works that constitute the charm of our leisure, that give their own interest to the long November evening, or add to the charm of a summer noon beneath the greenwood tree, are the offspring of poverty and of pain. ... How often is the writer obliged to put his own trouble, his suffering, or his sorrow aside, to finish the task ! The hand may tremble, the eyes fill with unbidden tears, and the temples throb with feverish pain, yet how often is there some hard and harsh necessity, which says, "the work must be done.”.
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Looking back one perceives only a massive operation, struggle, and action. Inreality there were no heroes or leaders. It was the people, the working people, in soldiers' uniform or in civilian attire, who controlled the situation and who recorded its will indelibly in the history of the country and mankind. It was a sultry summer, a crucial summer of the revolutionary flood-tide in 1917!
Alexandra Kollontai
Of all his memories of Wilt Chamberlain, the one that stood out for Larry Brown happened long after Chamberlain's professional career had ended. On a summer day in the early 1980s, when Brown was coaching at UCLA, Chamberlain showed up at Pauley Pavilion to take part in one of the high-octane pickup games that the arena constantly attracted. "Magic Johnson used to run the games," Brown recalled Tuesday after hearing that Chamberlain, his friend, had died at 63, "and he called a couple of chintzy fouls and a goaltending on Wilt. "So Wilt said: 'There will be no more layups in this gym,' and he blocked every shot after that. That's the truth, I saw it. He didn't let one [of Johnson's] shots get to the rim."
Wilt Chamberlain
