Then to the wilderness I fled.--
There among Alpine snows
And pastoral huts I hid my head,
And sought and found repose.
-Matthew Arnold,
Obermann Once More, 1867
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Good-morrow
(Ceillac)
Then to come in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine; -John Milton, L'Allegro, 1631 |
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Rest
(Ceillac)
I often am much wearier than you think, This evening more than usual, and it seems As if--forgive now--should you let me sit Here by the window with your hand in mine And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, -Robert Browning, The Faultless Painter, 1855 |
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Hidden Village
(Ceillac)
Among the farms and solitary huts, Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, -William Wordsworth, The Old Cumberland Beggar, 1800 |
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Green Hill
(St.-Véran)
There, on the green and village-cotted hill -George Gordon, Lord Byron, Don Juan: Canto the Fourth, 1821 |
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To This Dog
(St.-Véran)
Therefore to this dog will I, Tenderly not scornfully, Render praise and favour! With my hand upon his head, Is my benediction said Therefore, and for ever. -Elizabeth Barrett Browning, To Flush, My Dog, 1844 |
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Come Home From the Shop
(St.-Véran)
You said you were coming right home from the shop As soon as your day's work was done. -Henry Clay Work, Come Home, Father, 1864 |
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In the Window Niche
(St.-Véran)
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, -Edgar Allan Poe, To Helen, 1831 |
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Tranquil Lore
(St.-Véran)
And to thy mountain-chalet come, And lie beside its door, And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum, And thy sad, tranquil lore! -Matthew Arnold, Obermann Once More, 1867 |
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Returns to the Fountain
(St.-Véran)
Talk not of wasted affection! affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to the springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refershment: That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline, 1847 |
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Company on the Way
We do not mind our not arriving anywhere nearly so much as our not having any company on the way. -Frank Moore Colby, The Margin of Hesitation, "Thinking It Through in Haste", 1921 |
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Little Town
And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. -John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn |