Quotes
Quotes about Art
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses perished; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead.
If, as I can't help suspecting, the dead also feel the pains of separation (and this may be one of their purgatorial sufferings), then for both lovers, and for all pairs of lovers without exception, bereavement is a universal and integral part of our experience of love.
Nevertheless let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself; and the wife see that she reverence her husband.
So that thou incline thine ear unto wisdom, and apply thine heart to understanding; Yea, if thou criest after knowledge, and liftest up thy voice for understanding; If thou seekest her as silver, and searchest for her as for hid treasures; Then shalt thou understand the fear of the LORD, and find the knowledge of God. For the LORD giveth wisdom: out of his mouth cometh knowledge and understanding.
A wise man's heart is at his right hand; but a fool's heart at his left.
When wisdom entereth into thine heart, and knowledge is pleasant unto thy soul; Discretion shall preserve thee, understanding shall keep thee:
And they said one to another, Did not our heart burn within us while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened to us the scripture?
The nightingale has a lyre of gold, The lark's is a clarion call, And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute, But I love him best of all. For his song is all the joy of life, And we in the mad spring weather, We two have listened till he sang Our hearts and lips together.
When the swallows homeward fly, When the roses scattered lie, When from neither hill or dale, Chants the silvery nightingale: In these works my bleeding heart Would to thee its brief impart; When I thus thy image lose Can I, ah! can I, e'er know repose?
A rare bird upon the earth, and exceedingly like a black swan. [Lat., Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno.]
Any party which takes credit for the rain must not be surprised if its opponents blame it for the drought.
A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I bless'd them unaware.
God bless us every one, prayed Tiny Tim, Crippled and dwarfed of body yet so tall Of soul, we tiptoe earth to look on him, High towering over all.
Amid my list of blessings infinite, Stands this the foremost, "That my heart has bled."
These eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward.
A scholar's ink lasts longer than a martyr's blood.
Music is not written in red, white and blue. It is written in the heart's blood of the composer.
By the far bridge many a spent cartridge Cheney killed 81 birds that day but in the pear tree survived ...... the partridge.
Martha Stewart stuffed and roasted canaries and found they could no longer sing.
The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
I have marked A thousand blushing apparitions To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness beat away those blushes, And in her eye there hath appeared a fire To burn the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth.
Where now I have no one to blush with me, To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine, To mask their brows and hide their infamy; But I alone, alone must sit and pine, Seasoning the earth with show'rs of silver brine, Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans, Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.
Oh, swiftly glides the bonnie boat. Just parted from the shore, And to the fisher's chorus-note, Soft moves the dipping oar!
Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time, Soon as the woods on shore dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn; Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past.
