Songs are usually unfit for whistling - indeed, whistling (except to the person doing it) is unbearable.
November at its best - with a sort of delightful menace in the air. - Anne Bosworth Greene
November at its best - with a sort of delightful menace in the air.
- Anne Bosworth Greene
What a strange joy it was to talk, to fish gleefully into the past and fling its fragments about us, with the unfailing aroma of pleasantness that pa… - Anne Bosworth Greene
What a strange joy it was to talk, to fish gleefully into the past and fling its fragments about us, with the unfailing aroma of pleasantness that pa…
My field-mouse had made a set of brand-new tracks; here and there they etched themselves, following the brown flowers. It seemed as if uncommon spiri… - Anne Bosworth Greene
My field-mouse had made a set of brand-new tracks; here and there they etched themselves, following the brown flowers. It seemed as if uncommon spiri…
Songs are usually unfit for whistling - indeed, whistling (except to the person doing it) is unbearable. - Anne Bosworth Greene
timeliness is an enemy to art. - Anne Bosworth Greene
timeliness is an enemy to art.
I love old moons. There is something humanized about them; they are dulled a little, and rich in color. One can stare all night at an old moon. - Anne Bosworth Greene
I love old moons. There is something humanized about them; they are dulled a little, and rich in color. One can stare all night at an old moon.
But I shall like my battle. This sort of day puts one in mood for it. Plenty of wood in the shed, jam and potatoes and apples in the cellar, hay and … - Anne Bosworth Greene
But I shall like my battle. This sort of day puts one in mood for it. Plenty of wood in the shed, jam and potatoes and apples in the cellar, hay and …
a sarcastic expression, on a beast, is far more sinister than rage. - Anne Bosworth Greene
a sarcastic expression, on a beast, is far more sinister than rage.
The thing one resents about winter is its inactivity; the perpetual sameness of ice-armored hills and snow-blanketed woods. Great things, of course, … - Anne Bosworth Greene
The thing one resents about winter is its inactivity; the perpetual sameness of ice-armored hills and snow-blanketed woods. Great things, of course, …
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