There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
A. E. HousmanRead
Into my hear an air that kills through yon far country blows what are those blue remembered hills what spires,what farms are those? that is the land of lost content I can see it shining plain the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
Interpretation
The quote reflects a deep longing for a lost past and the beauty of memories.
In this poignant quote, A. E. Housman captures the essence of nostalgia as he reminisces about a bygone time and the landscapes that evoked happiness. He presents a vivid image of blue hills and faraway places that symbolize his lost youthful experiences, highlighting the bittersweet nature of memories that once brought joy but can never be revisited.
In practice
This quote can be used in a speech about the importance of cherishing memories as we grow older.
There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
Who made the world I cannot tell; 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.
I am not a pessimist but a pejorist (as George Eliot said she was not an optimist but a meliorist); and that philosophy is founded on my observation of the world, not on anything so trivial and irrelevant as personal history.
Lovers lying two and two Ask not whom they sleep beside, And the bridegroom all night through Never turns him to the bride.
And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.
Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking_x000D_ _x000D_ Spins the heavy world around.
Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
The dotted line my father's ashplant made On Sandymount Strand Is something else the tide won't wash away.
As a kid, I did want to be an old-timer, since they were the ones with the big stories and the cool clothes. I wanted to go there. Now, I guess I want to bring that with me and go back in time.
While Pickstown may not be what it once was, it still is framed by the natural beauty of the ancient river, the sweep of the Great Plains, and the long, unbroken shoreline of the lake behind the dam. It gave me a 19th-century childhood in a modern mid-20th-century town, and for that I will always be grateful.
Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime!
When I was young, we always had mornings like this.
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