I stood beside a hill_x000D_ _x000D_ Smooth with new-laid snow,_x000D_ _x000D_ A single star looked out_x000D_ _x000D_ From the cold evening glow._x000D_ _x000D_ There was not other creature_x000D_ _x000D_ That saw what I could see,_x000D_ _x000D_ I stood and watched the evening star_x000D_ _x000D_ As long as it watched me.
Interpretation
The quote reflects the beauty of a serene moment in nature, emphasizing connection and observation.
In this poem, Sara Teasdale captures a tranquil moment where she observes a star shining in the evening sky, surrounded by the stillness of a snow-covered hill. This moment of contemplation reveals a profound connection to nature and highlights the beauty that can be found in solitude, suggesting that even in isolation, there is an intimate dialogue between the observer and the observed.
In practice
This quote can be used in a speech about appreciating the small, beautiful moments in life.
As the waves of perfume, heliotrope, rose, _x000D_ _x000D_ Float in the garden when no wind blows, _x000D_ _x000D_ Come to us, go from us, whence no one knows; _x000D_ _x000D_ So the old tunes float in my mind, _x000D_ _x000D_ And go from me leaving no trace behind, _x000D_ _x000D_ Like fragrance borne on the hush of the wind.
From my spirit's gray defeat, From my pulse's flagging beat, From my hopes that turned to sand Sifting through my close-clenched hand, From my own fault's slavery, If I can sing, I still am free. For with my singing I can make A refuge for my spirit's sake, A house of shining words, to be My fragile immortality.
I thought of you and how you love this beauty, And walking up the long beach all alone I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder As you and I once heard their monotone. Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me The cold and sparkling silver of the sea -- We two will pass through death and ages lengthen Before you hear that sound again with me.
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer.
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten, Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold, Let it be forgotten forever and ever, Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
For I shall learn from flower and leaf, That color every drop they hold, To change the lifeless wine of grief To living gold.
Thus we see that the lot of the duck hunter is not a happy one. He is the child of frustration, the collector of mishap, the victim of misfortune. He suffers from cold and wet and lack of sleep. He is punished more often than rewarded. Yet he continues. Why? Because one great day-- and great days do come, days when the ducks are willing and the gun swings true-- repays him many fold for all the others.
People need open space. People need to bring their children into an area where they can play without restriction." And I was told, "This is development." And I said, "That is not development, definitely not sustainable development, definitely not responsible development. People need fresh air. They can do without buildings. They can do without concrete. But they cannot do without fresh air.
Almost any garden, if you see it at just the right moment, can be confused with paradise.
In the wintertime, in the snow country, citrus fruit was so rare, and if you got one, it was better than ambrosia.
But the golden-rod is one of the fairy, magical flowers; it grows not up to seek human love amid the light of day, but to mark to the discerning what wealth lies hid in the secret caves of earth.
For better or worse, zoos are how most people come to know big or exotic animals. Few will ever see wild penguins sledding downhill to sea on their bellies, giant pandas holding bamboo lollipops in China or tree porcupines in the Canadian Rockies, balled up like giant pine cones.
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