Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Just drop your bucket where you are.
The woods were made for the hunter of dreams...
There are purple grapes in the Land of Git-Thare.
Strew gladness on the paths of men-You will not pass this way again.
Seek not for fresher founts afar, just drop you bucket where you are.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man.
I say the very things that make the greatest StirAn' the most interestin' things, are things that did n't occur.
W'en you see a man in woe, Walk right up and say 'hullo'; Say "hullo" and "how d'ye do. How's the world a-usin' you?
Bring me men to match my mountains: Bring me men to match my plains: Men with empires in their purpose and new eras in their brains.
The woods were made for the hunters of dreams, The brooks for the fishers of song; To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game The streams and the woods belong.
A hundred thousand men were led By one calf near three centuries dead; They followed still his crooked way And lost a hundred years a day; For thus such reverence is lent To well established precedent.
One day through the primeval wood A calf walked home as good calves should; But made a trail all bent askew, A crooked trail as all calves do. . . . . And men two centuries and a half Trod in the footsteps of that calf.
Where shall we get religion? Beneath the open sky, the sphere of crystal silence surcharged with deity.. The midnight earth sends incense up, sweet with the breath of prayer -- Go out beneath the naked night and get religion there.
W'en you see a man in woe, Walk right up and say hullo. Say hullo and how d'ye do, How's the world a-usin' you? . W'en you travel through the strange Country t'other side the range, Then the souls you've cheered will know Who you be, an' say hullo.
Seek not for fresher founts afar, Just drop your bucket where you are; And while the ship right onward leaps, Uplift it from the exhaustless deeps. Parch not your life with dry despair; The stream of hope flow everywhere-- So under every sky and star, Just drop your bucket where you are.
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the place of their self-content; There are souls like stars that dwell apart, In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths Where highways never ran,-- But let me live by the side of the road, And be a friend to man.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road, Where the race of men go by; They are good, they are bad; they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish,--so am I; Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban? Let me live in my house by the side of the road, And be a friend to man.
The woods were made for the hunters of dreams, The brooks for the fisher of song; To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game The streams and the woods belong. There are thoughts that moan from the soul of the pine And thoughts in a flower-bell curled; And the thoughts that are blown with the scent of the fern Are as new and as old as the world.