Browsing Revolt Library By Tag : journey

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When all the night is horrible with clamor Of voiceless curses darker than the night, When light of sun there is not, neither star-shine Nor any beacon on the hill of right Shine, O thou light of life, upon our pathway, Freedom, be thou our light! Since all life's ways are difficult and dreary And false steps echo through eternity, And there is naught to lean on as we journey By paths not smooth ac downward ways would be We have no other help, we need no other Freedom, we lean on thee. The slaves' base murmur and the threats of tyrants, The voice of cowards who cringe and cry "Retreat!" The whisper of the world, "Come where power calls thee!" The whisper of the flesh, "Let life be sweet!" Silence all these with thy divine commanding Guide t... (From : AnarchyArchives.)

CHAPTER III. I resumed mine, also. The lawyer and the lady whispered together. I was sitting beside Posdnicheff, and I maintained silence. I desired to talk to him, but I did not know how to begin, and thus an hour passed until we reached the next station. There the lawyer and the lady went out, as well as the clerk. We were left alone, Posdnicheff and I. They say it, and they lie, or they do not understand, said Posdnicheff. Of what are you talking? Why, still the same thing. He leaned his elbows upon his knees, and pressed his hands against his temples. Love, marriage, family,all lies, lies, lies. He rose, lowered the lamp-shade, lay down with his elbows on the cushion, and closed his eyes. He r...

This text was taken from the 1st edition of Memoirs of a Revolutionist, Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston and New York, 1899. MEMOIRS OF A REVOLUTIONIST PART FIRST CHILDHOOD II A HIGH, spacious bedroom, the corner room of our house, with a white bed upon which our mother is lying, our baby chairs and tables standing close by, and the neatly served tables covered with sweets and jellies in pretty glass jars, --- a room into which we children are ushered at a strange hour, --- this is the first half-distinct reminiscence of my life. Our mother was dying of consumption; she was only thirty-five years old. Before parting with us forever, she had wished to have us by her side, to caress us, to feel happy for a moment in our joys, and she had arranged this little treat by the side of her bed, which she could leave no more. I remember her pale thin face, her large, dark...

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