Читать книгу The House That Is Our Own - Anna Masterton Buchan - Страница 2
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ОглавлениеMy deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits.
I am so lonely, years are so long,
I want you only, you and your song.
An ye had been where I hae been,
Ye wadna be sae canty-o,
An ye had seen what I hae seen
On the banks o’ Killiecrankie-o.
Merely to be alive is adventure enough in a world like
this, so erratic and disjointed, so lovely and so odd,
and mysterious and profound. It is, at any rate, a
pity to remain in it half-dead.
What I admire most is the total defiance of expense.
Rainy rainy Rattle-sticks, dinna rain on me,
Rain on Johnny Groat’s house far across the sea;
A blessed thing it is for any man or woman to have a
friend, one whom we can trust utterly, who knows
the best and the worst of us, and who loves us just
the same.— Charles Kingsley
My books, the best of company is to me,
A glorious Court where hourly I
Converse....
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.
It was warm, with a latent shiver in the air that made
the warmth only the more welcome.
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich-embroidered canopy
To Kings ... ?
The old strange house that is our own.
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
O fat white woman whom nobody loves?
... Letters—not dissertations, not sentimental effusions,
not strings of witticisms; but real letters such as any
person of plain sense would be glad to receive.
Sir, I love the acquaintance of young people.
Every one of these islanders is himself an island.
Ah, sweet content, where is thy mild abode?
Is it with shepherds and light-hearted swains?
Brave flowers! that I could gallant it like you
And be as little vain!
The happy life be these, I find,
The riches left, not sot with pain,
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind.
Bonnily they shine.
The loaf is o’ the wheaten meal,
The cloth o’ the linen fine.
I should have there this only fear
Lest men, when they my pleasure see,
Should hither throng to live like me,
And so make a city here.
At ilka turn a bit wanderin’ burn,
And a canty biggin’ on ilka lea—
There’s nocht see braw in the wide world’s schaw
As the heughs and holms o’ the South Countrie.
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend ...
It’s rainin’ weet’s the garden-sod,
Weet the lang road where gangrels plod....
The ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes....
The smell o’ the simmer hills,
Thyme and hinny and heather,
Juniper, birk and fern....
I propose writing you every day. My opinions and
descriptions will depend on the health and humour of
the Moment in which I write, from which cause my
Sentiments will often appear to differ on the same
subject.— The Journal of a Lady of Quality
I see the grass shake in the sun for leagues on either hand.
I see a river loop...
West and away from here to heaven still is the land.
Go softly by that river-side, or when you would depart,
you’ll find its every winding tied and knotted
round your heart....
Pentit homes are bonnie;
But a kiss o’ my dear love
Is better far than ony.
All, World of ours, are you so grey,
And weary, World, of spinning,
That you repeat the tales to-day
You told at the beginning?
We may have to choose between barren ease and rich
unrest, or rather, one does not choose. Life somehow
chooses.— Winifred Holtby
