Here, on the farther shore of the sunset, with flushed tide at his feet, and the large star flashing with strange laughter, did he himself naked walk with lifted arms into the quiet flood of life.
—D.H. Lawrence, A Modern Lover
For some reason he couldn’t re-create his father’s voice, its cadences, the exact tenor of it. It was peculiar not to remember his father’s voice, a voice he’d heard all his life. Possibly it had not had that much effect.
—Robert Ford, The Womanizer
Those trees in whose dim shadow
The ghastly priest doth reign,
The priest who slew the slayer,
And shall himself be slain
—Thomas Babbington Macaulay, The Battle of the Lake Regillus
…She stood with her proud head looking forward
face stung with wet pine-needles, eyes shining
with tears and rain.
‘What are you doing up there?
You fool - you’ll catch your death.’
But she was giving herself entire to the rain
and the rain had given itself to her.
She threw back her hair dark-handed,
and looked into the far distance as if
she’d seen what no one else could see in it…
—Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Zima Junction