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

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

Hidden Village (Ceillac)

Among the farms and solitary huts, Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, -William Wordsworth, The Old Cumberland Beggar, 1800

Green Hill (St.-Véran)

There, on the green and village-cotted hill -George Gordon, Lord Byron, Don Juan: Canto the Fourth, 1821

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

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

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

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

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

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

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