St. Martin's Summer
In 1918 South Dakota, Lilly Clark speaks her mind -- even to her neighbor's chagrin. When a immigrant is being persecuted for the war raging overseas, how can she stand by and not come to his rescue? Can this independent woman surrender her desires to her heavenly Father and her heart to the joy of romance?
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Page 391 - And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs ; And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, — Came in slow pomp ; — the moving pomp might seem Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.
Page 172 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale ; look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops; I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Page 346 - So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.
Page 440 - Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven, That spreading in this dull and clodded earth Gives it a touch ethereal- a new birth: Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between...
Page 14 - To me, and to the state of my great grief, Let kings assemble ; for my grief's so great, That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up : here I and sorrow sit ; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
Page 201 - O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim...
Page 94 - O well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on, To the haven under the hill ; But 0 for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, 0 sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
Page 202 - While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.