The Harvard Monthly, Volumes 31-32Students of Harvard College, 1900 - College students' writings, American |
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ACTON ain't ARCHER Aristophanes asked Bédier began Bell Ranch Berquin Brattle BRENT character comedy course criticism Dale DART DEUKALION door Ebbsmith Eisteddfod Emerson English EPIMETHEUS essays Esther Waters Evelyn Innes eyes face father feel fence Francesca Frank Norris French Gay Lord Quex GEORGE Geraldine girl Gissing give Gorsedd Guenevere hand Harvard head heard heart Henry James Hervey White John knew Lady laugh literary literature live looked Luigi MARGARET Maupassant Maynard and Company Miss Rice MISS WALKER mother nature never night NORTHERER novel once passion PATTERTON Philip Pinero play poems PROMETHEUS PYRRHA ranch scene seemed sheep smile soul Stephen Crane story style sure talk Tanqueray tell things thou thought to-night tragedy TRAUNTON truth turned undergraduates voice warn't WHITMAN woman words write young
Popular passages
Page 195 - Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof: but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.
Page 80 - IF I am going to be drowned — if 1 am going to be drowned — if I am going to be drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods, who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees...
Page 80 - None of them knew the color of the sky. Their eyes glanced level, and were fastened upon the waves that swept toward them. These waves were of the hue of slate, save for the tops, which were of foaming white, and all of the men knew the colors of the sea. The horizon narrowed and widened, and dipped and rose, and at all times its edge was jagged with waves that seemed thrust up in points like rocks.
Page 81 - A SOLDIER of the legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears ; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might Say The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my native land...
Page 33 - We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angels go. We do not see that they only go out, that archangels may come in. We are idolaters of the old. We do not believe in the riches of the soul, in its proper eternity and omnipresence. We do not believe there is. any force in to-day to rival or re-create that beautiful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of the old tent, where once we had bread and shelter and organs, nor believe that the spirit can feed, cover, and nerve us again.
Page 34 - Wherever snow falls, or water flows, or birds fly, wherever day and night meet in twilight, wherever the blue heaven is hung by clouds, or sown with stars, wherever are forms with transparent boundaries, wherever are outlets into celestial space, wherever is danger, and awe, and love, there is Beauty, plenteous as rain, shed for thee, and though thou shouldst walk the world over, thou shalt not be able to find a condition inopportune or ignoble.
Page 81 - In his childhood the correspondent had been made acquainted with the fact that a soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, but he had never regarded the fact as important. Myriads of his school-fellows had informed him of the soldier's plight, but the dinning had naturally ended by making him perfectly indifferent. He had never considered it his affair that a soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, nor had it appeared to him as a matter for...
Page 31 - I could not possibly give you one of the ' arguments ' you cruelly hint at, on which any doctrine of mine stands. For I do not know what arguments mean, in reference to any expression of a thought. I delight in telling what I think ; but, if you ask me how I dare say so, or, why it is so, I am the most helpless of mortal men.
Page 55 - Awake ! awake ! Sleep no more, my gentle mate ! With your tiny tawny bill, Wake the tuneful echo shrill, On vale or hill ; Or in her airy, rocky seat, Let her listen and repeat The tender ditty that you tell, The sad lament, The dire event, To luckless Itys that befell.
Page 81 - Now, however, it quaintly came to him as a human, living thing. It was no longer merely a picture of a few throes in the breast of a poet, meanwhile drinking tea and warming his feet at the grate; it was an actuality - stern, mournful, and fine.