Strayed Revellers: A Novel of Modernistic Truth and Intruding War

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Henry Holt, 1918 - 390 من الصفحات

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الصفحة 27 - WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains; and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers.
الصفحة 27 - Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky , but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last...
الصفحة 249 - I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.
الصفحة 27 - ... about their summits which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village...
الصفحة 28 - ... gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of...
الصفحة 28 - Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace !) and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years...
الصفحة 381 - And thou, proved, much enduring, Wave-toss'd Wanderer ! Who can stand still ? Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me — The cup again ! Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul ! FRAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE...

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