Excerpt from Bridle Paths
And laughed at the strange spectacle of men, Some eight in number, mounted and equipped For a month's ride in any weather. When The setting sun behind the cloud bank slipped, Taking his gold from every roof and spire, The horsemen, turning from the crowded street, Where curious eyes might scan their strange attire, O'er highways trodden by more humble feet, Reached, on the city's edge, a drovers' inn, And stabled there the horses for the night. Next morn their real journey would begin, Bringing each day some unfamiliar sight; But now they sought a club house, small and quaint, Midway Upon an alley, o'er the door A swinging head, well done in cracking paint. Bare was the board of damask, and the floor Was bare; but there was space for a good blaze Within the fireplace. The low walls were hung With relics, seeming to pierce through that haze, Which to a fading past has ever clung, The poet's script, the sculptor's plaque or bust The artist's sketch and books in cases shut, Each volume gathering undisturbed its dust, Its pages never read or even cut: For all these volumes on the crowded shelves, Essay or poem, history or romance, The members of the club had writ themselves, And no one thought the others' worth a glance.
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.
Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.
Excerpt from Bridle Paths
And laughed at the strange spectacle of men, Some eight in number, mounted and equipped For a month's ride in any weather. When The setting sun behind the cloud bank slipped, Taking his gold from every roof and spire, The horsemen, turning from the crowded street, Where curious eyes might scan their strange attire, O'er highways trodden by more humble feet, Reached, on the city's edge, a drovers' inn, And stabled there the horses for the night. Next morn their real journey would begin, Bringing each day some unfamiliar sight; But now they sought a club house, small and quaint, Midway Upon an alley, o'er the door A swinging head, well done in cracking paint. Bare was the board of damask, and the floor Was bare; but there was space for a good blaze Within the fireplace. The low walls were hung With relics, seeming to pierce through that haze, Which to a fading past has ever clung, The poet's script, the sculptor's plaque or bust The artist's sketch and books in cases shut, Each volume gathering undisturbed its dust, Its pages never read or even cut: For all these volumes on the crowded shelves, Essay or poem, history or romance, The members of the club had writ themselves, And no one thought the others' worth a glance.
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.
Excerpt from Bridle Paths
In spring sunshine and the sudden shower
Across the storied land the horsemen rode.
Three leagues away they saw the city's tower,
Set by the tidal stream which seaward flowed,
The first of many rivers to be crossed -
By steamboat, bridge, rope-ferry, or by ford -
Before they climbed the mountain range and lost
The springs on heights where the lone eagle soared.
They were not many those who rode - not more
Than could find shelter in a rural inn
Should court-week crowd it to the outer door,
When the great dinner gong let loose its din -
Somewhat at discord with their times, now drawn
Together by their common tastes and set
Upon a journey in the season's dawn,
While orchards were in bloom, and fields were wet
With greenness. Journeys of such length, and made
In such a way, were usual once; but now
Men paused to stare at the small cavalcade;
The farm-hand in the furrow stopped his plow,
And passing horses shied at saddle-bags
And the rolled rubber capes on saddle bows.
Within the village the village wags
Stood on the village paths in straggling rows
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.
„Über diesen Titel“ kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.
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PAP. Zustand: New. New Book. Shipped from UK. Established seller since 2000. Artikel-Nr. LW-9781332106646
Anzahl: 15 verfügbar