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Member: katekassermanCollectionsYour library (70) Reviews4 reviews TagsNone Cloudsauthor cloud, tag mirror GroupsAsian Fiction & Non-Fiction, Awful Lit., Historical Fiction, History at 30,000 feet: The Big Picture, Humor, Non-Fiction Readers, Writer-readers Homepagehttp://www.katekasserman.com Membership Real nameKate Kasserman LocationChicago, IL Favorite authorsNot set Account typepublic, free URLs
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Yes, I've noticed I do read more than ever on my Kindle, even though I have less and less time these days. I've found that I read more on my Kindle for iPhone app than I even do on my Kindle. The convenience is priceless. I can read on my phone while waiting in line at the grocery store, waiting for a doctor's appt, or even when I'm on hold on the phone! My parents both have Kindles under the same account, so they can share books whenever they want. Pretty cool stuff!
posted by CheriLasota at 1:25 pm (EST) on Aug 2, 2011
Like you, I do wish I had more time to read. *sigh* I'll let you know when Artemis finally hits the marketplace!
Wishing you more time for the little things...
~Cheri =)
posted by CheriLasota at 3:27 pm (EST) on Jul 13, 2011
~Cheri (StirlingEditor)
posted by CheriLasota at 12:20 pm (EST) on Jul 1, 2011
I am just so sorry it took me so long to get to it.
My review pile got the better of me and I do apologize for that.
I did enjoy it and please let me know when you do get that sequel written. Perhaps by then my reading pile will be shorter than I am.
heh.
Patty
posted by BrokenTeepee at 10:21 pm (EST) on May 19, 2010
Spirit of Poetry, The
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
posted by theoldman at 7:08 am (EST) on Nov 29, 2009