Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Love drips & gathers, but the fallen blood Shall calm her sores..." -Thomas, The Force that through the green fuse drives the flower.
Let the dry eyes perceive Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses By the curve of the nude mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.
how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any lifted from the no of all nothing human merely being doubt unimaginable You?
He oft finds med'cine, who his griefe imparts; But double griefs afflict concealing harts, As raging flames who striveth to supresse.
This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.
Death, is not an end, but a transition crisis. All the forms of decay are but masks of regeneration--the secret alembics of vitality.
Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; The spring begins before the winter's over.
When strawberries go begging, and the sleek Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak, We shall live well--we shall live very well.
They are not long, the weeping and the laughter. Love and desire and hate; I think they have no portion in us after We pass the gate.
A civilized man is one who will give a serious answer to a serious question. Civilization itself is a certain sane balance of values.
I think of life as an inn where I have to stay until the abyss coach arrives. I don't know where it will take me, for I know nothing.
Never having discovered qualities in myself which could attract someone else, I could never believe that anyone felt attracted to me.
Anytime the perfume of orange and lemon groves wafts in the window; the human body has to feel suffused with a languorous well-being.
The history of the world suggests that without love of God there is little likelihood of a love for man that does not become corrupt.
To be faithful in prayer it is indispensable that we arrange all the activities of the day with a regularity that nothing can disturb
My grandfather is Portuguese. He betrayed what was expected of him and married my grandmother of African descent on my father's side.
Sex suppressed will go berserk, But it keeps us all alive. It's a wonderful change from wives and work And it ends at half past five.
. . . if gold rust, what then will iron do?/ For if a priest be foul in whom we trust/ No wonder that a common man should rust. . . .
When thou dost tell another's jest, therein Omit the oaths, which true wit cannot need; Pick out of tales the mirth, but not the sin.
Lastly, the ashes left behind, May daily show to move the mind, That to ashes and dust return we must: Then think, and drink tobacco.
The artist's conception of his art or the scientist's of his science is usually as great as his conception of his own worth is small.
The earth has disappeared beneath my feet, It fled from all my ecstasy. Now like a singing air creature I feel the rose keep opening.
Wherever you find a wife and mother-in-law slugging it out, you'll find a son who's not speaking up to either his mother or his wife.
Judging people for whom they love (a same sex partner) rather than by whom they harm, should in itself merit a psychiatric diagnosis.
As the moon's fair image quaketh In the raging waves of ocean, Whilst she, in the vault of heaven, Moves with silent peaceful motion.
All your strength in is your union. All your danger is in discord. Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together.
Chill air and wintry winds! My ear has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long.
A handful of red sand from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought.
How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and the heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain!
The marvel of the Bhagavad-Gita is its truly beautiful revelation of life's wisdom which enables philosophy to blossom into religion.
A father can pass on his nose and eyes and even his intelligence to his child, but not his soul. In every human being the soul is new
Shun to seek what is hid in the womb of the morrow, and set down as gain in life's ledger whatever time fate shall have granted thee.
Better wilt thou live...by neither always pressing out to sea nor too closely hugging the dangerous shore in cautious fear of storms.
It is but a poor establishment where there are not many superfluous things which the owner knows not of, and which go to the thieves.
I learn to love the thing that has to be erased, the thing I may not be allowed to keep, sand that runs away beneath my running feet.
Not but wut abstract war is horrid, I sign to thet with all my heart, But civilysation doos git forrid Sometimes, upon a powder-cart.
I've always preferred mythology to history. History is truth that becomes an illusion. Mythology is an illusion that becomes reality.
The runner stopped dead, lost his balance, froze in one of those violent attitudes in which the photographers petrify living reality.
It is at the heart of our human enterprise, that is to say, at the heart of society, to allow consensus a power it ought not to have.
The best way to avoid a bad action is by doing a good one, for there is no difficulty in the world like that of trying to do nothing.
We love and understand talent; we wish it be within us. The truly gifted, those exceptional few, must wait for the world to catch up.
With odorous oil thy head and hair are sleek; And then thou kemb'st the tuzzes on thy cheek: Of these, my barbers take a costly care.
Raw in the fields the rude militia swarms, Mouth without hands; maintained at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence.
I never, with important air, In conversation overbear. . . . . My tongue within my lips I rein; For who talks much must talk in vain.
The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon.
I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried- "La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!
It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
Or thou might'st better listen to the wind, Whose language is to thee a barren noise, Though it blows legend-laden through the trees.
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
The corn that makes the holy bread By which the soul of man is fed, The holy bread, the food unpriced, Thy everlasting mercy, Christ.