Quotes
Quotes about Day
The only limit to our realization of tomorrow will be our doubts of today.
In those days was Hezekiah sick unto death. And Isaiah the prophet the son of Amoz came unto him, and said unto him. Thus saith the Lord, Set thine house in order: for thou shalt die, and not live.
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale. from the poem The Cotterâs Saturday Night.
Pansies? You praise the ones that grow today Here in the garden; had you seen the place When Sutherland was living! Here they grew, From blue to deeper blue, in midst of each A golden dazzle like a glimmering star, Each broader, bigger than a silver crown; While here the weaver sat, his labor done, Watching his azure pets and rearing them, Until they seem'd to know his step and touch, And stir beneath his smile like living things: The very sunshine loved them, and would lie Here happy, coming early, lingering late, Because they were so fair.
I send thee pansies while the year is young, Yellow as sunshine, purple as the night; Flowers of remembrance, ever fondly sung By all the chiefest of the Sons of Light; And if in recollection lives regret For wasted days and dreams that were not true, I tell thee that the "pansy freak'd with jet" Is still the heart's ease that the poets knew Take all the sweetness of a gift unsought, And for the pansies send me back a thought.
Heart's ease! one could look for half a day Upon this flower, and shape in fancy out Full twenty different tales of love and sorrow, That gave this gentle name.
Frederick Buechner,'Whistling in the Dark' When a child is born, a father is born. A mother is born, too of course, but at least for her it's a gradual process. Body and soul, she has nine months to get used to what's happening. She becomes what's happening. But for even the best-prepared father, it happens all at once. On the other side of a plate-glass window, a nurse is holding up something roughly the size of a loaf of bread for him to see for the first time. Even if he should decide to abandon it forever ten minutes later, the memory will nag him to the grave. He has seen the creation of the world. It has his mark on it. He has its mark on him. Both marks are, for better or for worse, indelible. All sons, like all daughters, are prodigals if they're smart. Assuming the Old Man doesn't run out on them first, they will run out on him if they are to survive, and if he's smart he won't put up too much of a fuss. A wise father sees all this coming, and maybe that's why he keeps his distance from the start. He must survive too. Whether they ever find their way home again, none can say for sure, but it's the risk he must take if they're ever to find their way at all. In the meantime, the world tends to have a soft spot in its heart for lost children. Lost fathers have to fend for themselves. Even as the father lays down the law, he knows that someday his children will break it as they need to break it if ever they're to find something better than law to replace it. Until and unless that happens, there's no telling the scrapes they will get into trying to lose him and find themselves. Terrible blnders will be made-dissapointments and failures, hurts and losses of every kind. And they'll keep making them even after they've found themselves too, of course, because growing up is a process that goes on and on. And every hard knock they ever get, knocks the father even harder still, if that's possible, and if and when they finally come through more or less in one piece at the end, there's maybe no rejoicing greater than his in all creation. -Fatherhood.
Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking, The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill, The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking-- Kathleen Mavourneen, what, slumbering, still? Oh hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever? Oh hast thou forgotten this day we must part? It may be for years and it may be forever; Oh why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?
Good-night! good-night! as we so oft have said Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days That are no more, and shall no more return. Thou hast but taken up thy lamp and gone to bed; I stay a little longer, as one stays To cover up the embers that still burn.
Say good-bye er howdy-do-- What's the odds betwixt the two? Comin'--goin'--every day-- Best friends first to go away-- Grasp of hands you'd ruther hold Than their weight in solid gold, Slips their grip while greetin' you,-- Say good-bye er howdy-do?
Gone--flitted away, Taken the stars from the night and the sun From the day! Gone, and a cloud in my heart.
The light of other days is faded, And all their glories past.
Listen to the Water-Mill: Through the live-long day How the clicking of its wheel Wears the hours away! Languidly the Autumn wind Stirs the forest leaves, From the field the reapers sing Binding up their sheaves: And a proverb haunts my mind As a spell is cast, "The mill cannot grind With the water that is past."
The days of rejoicing are gone forever. [Fr., Ils sont passes ces jours de fete.]
O Death! O Change! O Time! Without you, O! the insufferable eyes Of these poor Might-Have-Beens, These fatuous, ineffectual yesterdays.
O God! Put back Thy universe and give me yesterday.
As lousy as things are now, tomorrow they will be somebody's good old days.
The next day is never so good as the day before.
Have patience and endure; this unhappiness will one day be beneficial. [Lat., Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim.]
Iraq is an unjust war. (spoken on the Diane Rehm Show twice.. stated in articles written for NY Times.. printed in USA Today).
Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind.
You can't have a better tomorrow if you are thinking about yesterday all the time.
Our commander said the Viet Cong are farmers by day.. guerillas by night. Look for those who are tired. So anyone who yawned was getting popped.
We Are The Living Graves Of Murdered Beasts We are the living graves of murdered beasts Slaughtered to satisfy our appetites We never pause to wonder at our feasts If animals, like men, can possibly have rights We pray on Sundays that we may have light To guide our footsteps on the path we tread We're sick of war We do not want to fight The thought of it now fills our hearts with dread And yet we gorge ourselves upon the dead Like carrion crows we live and feed on meat Regardless of the suffering and pain We cause by doing so. If thus we treat Defenseless animals for sport or gain How can we hope in this world to attain the PEACE we say we are so anxious for We pray for it o'er hecatombs of slain To God, while outraging the moral law Thus cruelty begets its offspring: war.
Do not say,"it is morning," and dismiss it with a name of yesterday. See it for the first time as a newborn child that has no name. -Rabindranath Tagore.
