Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
And Rodriguez would bring with him his mandolin, and sometimes he touched it lightly or even sang, as they rested on some carved seat at the garden's end, looking out towards shadowy shrubs on the shining hill, but mostly he heard her speak of the things she loved, of what moths flew to their garden, and which birds sang, and how the flowers grew.
Suddenly a hook-nosed Asiatic gentleman emerged through the once-was gateway a picture of a Bible shepherd but for the long-barreled gun he carried instead of crook a brown shadow against brown masonry. He challenged them in Arabic, and Curley Crothers answered him in Queen Victoria's English that all was well. "Everything in the garden's lovely!" he asserted, in a deep-sea sing-song.
Therefore no garden should cost, nor look as if it cost, an outlay of money, time or toil that cramps the house's own ability to minister to the genuine bodily needs and spiritual enlargements of its indwellers; and therefore, also, it should never seem to cost, in its first making or in its daily keeping, so much pains as to lack, itself, a garden's supreme essential tranquillity.
As Helen Whitman flitted as noiselessly as the ghost she seemed to be up the dark stairway to her chamber, and without closing the casement that admitted the moonlight and the garden's odors, lay down upon her canopied bed, she trembled.
Out on the two wider sides of the lawn nothing breaks the smooth green but a well-situated tree or two until the limits of the premises are reached, and there, in lines that widen and narrow and widen again and hide the surveyor's angles, the flowers rise once more in a final burst of innumerable blossoms and splendid hues a kind of sunset of the garden's own.
Fennel, another of the many plants dedicated to St. John, was hung over doors and windows on his night in England, numerous allusions to which occur in the literature of the past. And in connection with this saint we are told how: "The scarlet lychnis, the garden's pride, Flames at St. John the Baptist's tyde."
Turnbull, longingly; "always did, from a child." The two young men looked at each other; then they looked at Venia; the sergeant assumed an expression of careless ease, while John Blundell sat his chair like a human limpet. Mr. Turnbull almost groaned as he remembered his tenacity. "The garden's looking very nice," he said, with a pathetic glance round. "Beautiful," assented the sergeant.
We ought to retain the sleeping beauty of the ordered garden's unlost configuration, with the warm house for its bosom, with all its remoter contours alleys, bays, bushy networks and sky-line keeping a winter share of their feminine grace and softness.
O! my feet to be treading the threshold once more, O'er which once went the leading of swords to the war! O! my feet in the garden's edge under the sun, Where the seeding grass hardens for haysel begun! Lo, lo! the wind blows To the heart of the Rose, And the ship lies tied To the haven side! But O for the keel The sails to feel!
"The whited air Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end;" when the frost silvered over the window-panes, or crept through the cracks and holes, and fringed them with its delicate fret-work; when the storm raged and howled without, and "Shook beams and rafters as it passed!"
Word Of The Day