Though day, the crickets called in the grass; my mother's singing rose from the camp. I lifted my arms; I could not help it. The breeze itself was warm; the islands soft with moss; the loons calling melancholy in forgotten bays; and Life in all its operations seemed unspeakably generous. Votes: 7
It meant different things to different people, but somehow it meant them all intensely. Shostakovich's words just confuse the issue. His symphony itself is what remains. Listen to it. It is your symphony to write with him. Votes: 4
I run through the woods, at once applauding myself for my wit-Well deserved, sir. Well deserved.And at the self instant, I am grinding my teeth because I am a vain, revenging idiot and shall be run down because of it. Votes: 1