Author: Hugh ConwayPublisher:
ISBN:
Category : English poetry
Languages : en
Pages : 164
Book Description
A Life's Idylls
Author: Hugh ConwayPublisher:
ISBN:
Category : English poetry
Languages : en
Pages : 164
Book Description
An American Idyll
Author: Cornelia Stratton ParkerPublisher:
ISBN:
Category :
Languages : en
Pages : 220
Book Description
Idylls of Busy Life
Author: David SinclairA Life's Idylls
Author: Hugh ConwayDacha Idylls
Author: Melissa L. CaldwellPublisher: Univ of California Press
ISBN: 0520262840
Category : Architecture
Languages : en
Pages : 224
Book Description
"Anyone who has spent time in Russia knows the importance of 'going to the dacha.' In this ethnography Melissa Caldwell reveals the mystique of rural life by exploring the social nature of gardening and making food, and Russian relationships to the land. It's truly an innovative study!"--Catherine Wanner, author of Communities of the Converted: Ukrainians and Global Evangelism "In this engaging ethnography, Melissa Caldwell brilliantly demonstrates what is peculiarly Russian about the dacha, long an object of literary and nostalgic imagining, while simultaneously situating the 'vacation cottage' within larger histories of leisure, consumption, home, and post-socialist transition. A must-read for scholars of Russia or tourism."--Pamela Ballinger, author of History in Exile: Memory and Identity at the Borders of the Balkans
A trilogy of the life-to-come, and other poems
Author: Robert BrownLife and Letters of Fred W. Robertson ...
Author: Frederick William RobertsonPublisher:
ISBN:
Category :
Languages : en
Pages : 416
Book Description
A Life's Idylls and Other Poems (Classic Reprint)
Author: Hugh ConwayPublisher: Forgotten Books
ISBN: 9780243962723
Category : Poetry
Languages : en
Pages : 160
Book Description
Excerpt from A Life's Idylls and Other Poems IN those Old days, \vhen all the world lay wrapped in mystic dream too sweet to break - when, glad, my heart went forth. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.
The Idylls of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus
Author: TheocritusPublisher:
ISBN:
Category : Greek poetry
Languages : en
Pages : 446
Book Description
Sielanka: An Idyll and In Vain
Author: Henryk SienkiewiczPublisher: Library of Alexandria
ISBN: 1465521879
Category : Fiction
Languages : en
Pages : 275
Book Description
In the woods, in the deep woods, was an open glade in which stood the house of the forester Stephan. The house was built of logs packed with moss, and the roof was thatched with straw; hard by the house stood two outbuildings; in front of it was a piece of fenced-in ground, and an old well with a long, crooked sweep; the water in the well was covered with a green vegetation at the edges. Opposite the windows grew sunflowers and wild hollyhocks, high, stately, and covered with blossoms as if with a swarm of gorgeous butterflies; between the sunflowers there peeped the red heads of the poppy; around the hollyhocks entwined sweet peas with pink blossoms and morning-glories; close to the ground grew nasturtiums, marigolds, primroses, and asters, pale because they were shaded from the sunlight by the leaves of the hollyhocks and sunflowers. The fenced ground on either side of the pathway leading to the house was planted with vegetables—carrots, beets, and cabbage; further off in a separate fenced-in lot there waved with each breath of wind the tender blue flower of the flax; still beyond could be seen the dark green of the potato patch; the rest of the clearing was checkered with the variegated shades of the different cereals that ran to the edge of the lake which touched the glade on one side. Near to the house a few trees were growing. Some were cherry trees, and one was a birch, with long, slender branches which swayed in the wind, and with every breeze its leaves touched the dilapidated moss-covered straw thatch of the roof; when the stronger gusts of wind bent its boughs to the wall, and pressed its twigs and the waves of leaves against the roof, it would seem as if the tree loved the house and embraced it. In this tree the sparrows made their home; the rustling of the leaves and twigs commingled with the chirp and joyous noise of the birds; in the eaves of the house the doves had built their nests, and the place was filled with their speech, cooing and calling to each other, entreating and discussing as is customary between doves, these noisy and talkative people. At times it happened that they were startled by some unknown cause; then around the house was heard a loud flapping, the air was filled with the whirl of wings and a multitude of white-feathered breasts; you could hear tumult, noise and excited cries—the whole flock flew out suddenly, circled round the house, now near, now far off. Sometimes they melted in the blue, sometimes their white feathers reflected the sunlight, again they hung over the house, undulating in the air, and alighting at last like a downfall of snowflakes on the gray straw of the roof. If this occurred in the rosy morning or in the splendor of the red setting sun, then in the glory of the air these doves were not white, but tinted pink, and settled on the roof and birch tree as flames or scattered rose leaves. At twilight, when the sun had hidden itself beyond the woods, this cooing under the roof and chirping in the birch tree became gradually quiet. The sparrows and the doves shook the dew from their wings and prepared to sleep; sometimes one of them gave voice once more, but more rarely, more softly, more drowsily, and then all was silent—the dusk was falling from the heavens upon the earth. The house, cherry trees, and birch were losing their form, mingling together, melting, and veiled in a mist which rose from the lake. Around the glade, as far as the eye could reach, there stretched the wall of dark pine trees and thick undergrowth. This wall was broken in one place by a wide dividing line, which reached to the edge of the lake. The lake was a very large one, the opposite side was nearly lost to view, and in the mist could be hardly discerned the red roof and steeple of a church, and the black line of the woods closing the horizon beyond the church.