Hervey Allen Quotes

Mornings, the flower-women hawk their wares— </br> Bronze caryatids of a genial race, </br> Bearing the bloom-heaped baskets on their heads.

Christ Jesus, when I come to die </br> Grant me a clean, sweet, summer sky, </br> Without the mad wind's panther cry. </br> Send me a little garden breeze </br> To gossip in magnolia trees; </br> For I have heard, these fifty years, </br> Confessions muttered at my ears, </br> Till every mumble of the wind </br> Is like tired voices that have sinned.

Legends are material to be moulded, and not facts to be recorded.

Local color has a fatal tendency to remain local; but it is also true that the universal often borders on the void.

Here the Frenchman, Spaniard, and Englishman all passed, leaving each his legend; and a brilliant and more or less feudal civilization with its aristocracy and slaves has departed with the economic system upon which it rested.

I lay there in the river for a minute and gave up. When you do that something dies inside.