United States or Seychelles ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
She had forgotten everything but the river, the forests, and the untrod worlds beyond them, and he was glad. For this world that she was welcoming, that her soul was crying out to, was his world, for ever and ever. It held his dreams, his hopes, all the desires that he had in life.
His heart, exhausted by his early sufferings, reposes like a new-healed limb, and shrinks from all excitement. But his understanding, his charity, his virtues, want a field for exercise and display; and we will procure it for him. Besides, is it not a shame, that the genius of Adrian should fade from the earth like a flower in an untrod mountain-path, fruitless?
"And Nature, the old Nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying, 'Here is a story book Thy father hath written for thee. "'Come wander with me, she said, 'Into regions yet untrod, And read what is still unread In the Manuscripts of God. "And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old Nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe."
It was that mystery of the unpeopled places that he most desired, their silence, the comradeship of spaces untrod by the feet of man. And now, what a fool he was! Through vast distances the forests he loved seemed to whisper it to him, and ahead of him the river seemed to look back, nodding over its shoulder, beckoning to him, telling him the word of the forests was true.
We, of a surety, have none of the grander features of Nature to admire; but the same Almighty Power which smote out the vast Andean Ranges yet untrod, has left traces of its handywork here.
And she hath left the old gray halls, Where an evil faith hath power, And the courtly knights of her father's train, And the maidens of her bower; And she hath gone to the Vaudois vale, By lordly feet untrod, Where the poor and needy of earth are rich In the perfect love of God!
Man changes with the fleeting years and a civilized world changes, but the untrod wilderness never changes. Before us lay the same rushing river I remembered so well, the same starved forest of spruce with its pungent odor, and there was the clump of spruce trees in which our last camp was pitched just as I had seen it last.
In the sweet low light of thy face, under heavens untrod by the sun, Let my soul with their souls find place and forget what was done or undone. Thou art more than the gods that number the days of our temporal breath For these give labour and slumber; but thou, Proserpina, death. Like Hesiod, Swinburne erred, though perhaps intentionally, as poets should, for the greater glory of the Muses.
Word Of The Day