Lakeside Walk Quotes

The other college towns he’d visited as part of the hockey team, or on Big-Ten related sports trips, were also pretty interesting, even when small: often a little shabby, with old-line bars and riverside or lakeside walks, and long-haired hipsters and lots of girls reading Khalil Gibran. The presence of The Prophet had always, in his experience, boosted the potential for hasty romances. He even knew a few handy lines: Fill each other’s cup, but drink not from one cup. And you could take that any way you wanted . . .

As the spring months gave way to summer and then the first leaves of autumn started to fall from the trees by the lakeside, Séamus resolved to sell his da’s house and their small plot of land and travel to England with the money to work in the cotton mills. At least there he would have no reminders of the love he had known and lost. At least there he might stand a chance of putting Maggie Murphy and the horrors of Titanic from his mind. Fate had decided his path in life, and he now had to walk that path, wherever it might lead him.

At the end of her walk, she’d sit near the lake, until the racket of the first passing vehicles revealed the real world, with all of its dull burdens and insufficient promises.

On her walk to the supper club—her supper club—Sunday morning, it finally dawned on Mariel. This was Florence’s protest over a decision made twenty years ago. If that were the case, the only thing that Mariel could do to make her mother happy would be something she’d never even consider. Mariel heard the chatter of birds above as she unlocked the door to her restaurant, and looked forward to the pleasant day ahead.

She got dressed again in the dark and went outside. She found herself taking a walk up the road, in the direction of the Lakeside, and when she breathed, she felt the cold lake wind on her lips.

Pilgrim’s Progress by Stewart Stafford Solitary steps in silence grim, As waters lapped the lakeside’s rim, In our time, before and aft, Magpies cackled, crows laughed. I drew level with a miasmic curtain, In vapour folds, to views uncertain, Sound grew thick in compensation, I took each step with trepidation. Sweet breath wind, fog dispersed, Marvelling at the ground traversed, The garden path to a shelter trite, As hailstones on my windows bite. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

I can’t walk away from her or her girls. She’s mine, and I’ll do everything to make certain she accepts me as hers.

Mason, we can’t keep doing this.” “Doing what?” “Winding each other up, only to walk away.” “What if I don’t want to walk away?” What if I want to hold tight and never let go?

He left home early, as he always did, six days a week, fifty weeks a year. A cautious breakfast, appropriate to a short round man aiming to stay in shape through his forties. A long walk down the carpeted corridors of a lakeside house appropriate to a man who earned a thousand dollars on each of those three hundred days he worked. A thumb on the button of the garage-door