He lay back for a little in his bed thinking about the smells of foo? of the intoxicating breath of bakeries and dullness of bun? He planned dinners, of enchanting aromatic food? endless dinners, in which one could alternate flavor with flavor from sunset to dawn without satiety, while one breathed great draughts of the bouquet of brandy.
Evelyn WaughAbout author
- Author's profession: Author, Writer
- Nationality: english
- Born: October 28, 1903
- Died: April 10, 1966
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I hope you never hear those words. Your mom. She died. They are different than other words. They are too big to fit in your ears. They belong to some strange, heavy, powerful language that pounds away at the side of your head, a wrecking ball coming at you again and again, until finally, the words crack a hole large enough to fit inside your brain. And in so doing, they split you apart.
Mitch Albom
Gone, gone again is Summer the lovely. She that knew not where to hide, Is gone again like a jeweled fish from the hand, Is lost on every side. Mute, mute, I make way to the garden, Thither where she last was seen; The heavy foot of the frost is on the flags there, Where her light step has been. Gone, gone again is Summer the lovely, Gone again on every side, Lost again like a shining fish from the hand Into the shadowy tide.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
