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And the winding paths seem to go on forever into the forests. I never saw anything so beautiful. Is there no one to let me in? Her hands were filled with tiny yellow rosebuds, and her cheeks were pink as seashells, though her hair was silver white. Everyone's welcome! I can't get in! I remember now. You're the boy who thinks that flowers belong only to girls. Oh, go away; this is the garden of make-believe and you can't enter here unless you have the key.

You never once looked at the yellow crocuses that your sister planted along the window ledge indoors. The key to the garden of make-believe flowers is the love of real flowers.

Handbook of Research on Strategy and Foresight

Go away, you don't belong here at all. He seemed to have walked, footsore and dejected, for hours and hours. The path invariably twisted when he thought that he had reached the end, and seemed never to get anywhere at all, no matter how far and how fast he traveled. He sat down upon the dry, parched grass, utterly disconsolate.

Is there never any way out? Just wish to be where you'd like to be, and I'll see that you get there. You want to be great. Wish yourself in a wonderful castle, writing a thousand books, or in a splendid city, building a thousand palaces. Wish-- " "Oh, stop! I'm tired, old Tommy. I wish that I were at home and had a chance to mend the doll-house trees! David rubbed his eyes. And, O Cathie, Cathie! I have a wonderful new plan for making doll-house gardens!

Philadelphia, Pa. Winter Woods, by H. Since that he had learned more and more of this little sister, Ann, and the things she loved. He was proud enough of her now. He was glad that they had called him from the yard where he was coasting with Bert and Harry Weston. He was glad even to leave the joy and the stinging cold, the tingling of it all, to come and sit here and talk to Ann, who was such a very little sister.

The doctor had met David in the hall, put his two hands on his shoulders and looked down at him from his great height, and said: "David, you're a brave lad.

Centenary Essays

Go tell your little sister what a beautiful world it is and how good it seems just to be alive. He wondered why his mother turned away her face as he passed her on the landing. You're tired, and you've forgotten how the trees look, and that's the reason that you don't want to get up and run outdoors. Don't you remember how you loved it all when we first came? Don't you remember the white petals on the cherry trees and the pink ones on the peach trees in Weston's yard?

Don't you remember how we found violets in the Lynn meadow along the brook, and how Mary Lynn laughed because you asked if you might pick one? Don't you remember it, Ann? Ann's little head drooped languidly. He became strangely terrified.

A Brief Biography of H.D.

It was Jim who had shown him the rabbit track that cut across the meadowhill field, twisted among the birches and finally disappeared behind the great, gray bowlder [sic] above the mill-creek swimming hole. Ann, Ann, look at me! Do you know how a rabbit hops across the snow? He puts his two hind feet forward, and then comes down with his front feet, and on the snow it looks as if he were running the other way. You'd never know unless someone told you.

Ann's tired head lifted a moment, her eyes forgot to droop. There was a faint touch of color in her cheeks; her eyes sought his wonderingly. You remember the hepaticas, Ann, how blue they were, and how you bunched the dark green leaves about them? Well, those leaves that were so strong and bright and shining last spring were left over from the year before.

So, don't you see, they'd be there all the time, hidden underneath the snow. And, oh, the fir trees are as green as ever--greener, it seems, for there's nothing else to hide them. I'll bring some home tomorrow, and you shall tell me which is oak and elm and chestnut, and which is from the little dogwood tree.

We'll spread them on the bed. You can pretend they're fairies--all with the newest thing in wood-style wings! I'll bring some roots home, too. We'll plant them in a pot and put them in the window--some bloodroot and some wee anemonies [sic]. Their roots are round, you know--anemonies [sic]--like little acorns or brown chestnuts. I'll have to look hard for them in the winter woods. Ann, are you listening to me? I think that the horse-chestnut buds are the largest. They're covered on the outside with thick, brown scales, to keep them warm, you know.

They're very happy in their tight, little houses, and none of them complain because the woods are empty. He wanted so to come out. He couldn't wait quietly as the others did, he wanted so to see the flowers again. The great horse-chestnut tree,--she knew each tiny leaf, because she was their mother. She said: 'You must rest quietly here, my little leaf. It won't be spring, you know, until I call you. Why, even the great branch wouldn't say the spring had come before our mother told him.

And, finally, because the sunlight was so warm, he pushed open the door of his house--forbidden though it was--and poked out his little head. They were gold-brown and fresh, for the snow had just melted away, and, down in the little hollow, the brook ran free, unbound and joyous. The little leaf laughed to himself and quivered in the sunlight. That night he could scarcely sleep for joy, and the next day, early in the morning, he was out again, venturing even farther.

But"--David paused impressively and was rewarded by an eager little clutch about his arm: "Go on, go on, what happened? Tell me, David. It was February still, you see, and he shook the great trees and the small trees and tried each branch and twig.


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But all the doors were locked, tight locked, all except one, and he laughed and he tossed the brown leaves with joy as he found the tiny little green leaf peering out. And then, what did she do? Instead of saying, 'Well, it served you right,' she sent her warm heart's blood, the sap, and wrapped her warmth round and round the leaf and covered him again in his warm bud. So he was none the worse for his naughtiness except for a nipped nose and a resolve to wait after that in patience for spring. So, shall we look for that very little bud when you are better?

It was the boy who broke that treacherous languor. You're a good lad, David!


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He knew that he was not a good lad--he never seemed to get all his lessons at school, and he was always forgetting to wipe his feet on the mat at the front door. The doctor was down the path and away with a whir of his big machine. David patted her hair softly, and stood patient and unquestioning, though he wondered why she should be crying now. Ann was going to get well! First published in The Comrade. This article originally appeared in Clockwatch Review: a journal of the arts.

A Brief Biography of H.D. | Poetry | Fiction & Literature

Bloomington, IL : Dept. On the game board of poetic quest, she is initiator, chief dice thrower, and the spiritual reality sought. Her image can never be physically possessed--what she represents is the power of the poet's dreaming self.

The Travels of D.H. Lawrence

Helen in Egypt, H. For a male poet to risk entrance into that feminine energy field requires rare gifts of sensitive awareness. While H. Hilda Doolittle delved for transcendence into projections of the self, her contemporary, William Carlos Williams, yanked his imagined woman by the hair. Without dream power, the woman is dispossessed of her generative role. Practicing his preachment, "no ideas but in things," Williams depicts his "beautiful thing" as victim of a catalog of graphic beatings.

He goes on to say, "The page also is the same beauty: a dry beauty of the page--beaten by whips" Likened to the physical page his mind wishes to dominate, the poet's feminine subject becomes vincible object, significantly, she does not dream any part of his poem.