Quotes
Quotes about Pain
A world made to be lost,--
A bitter life 'twixt pain and nothing tost.
From out the throng and stress of lies,
From out the painful noise of sighs,
One voice of comfort seems to rise:
"It is the meaner part that dies."
"Pain is hard to bear," he cried,
"But with patience, day by day,
Even this shall pass away."
Before the beginning of years
There came to the making of man
Time with a gift of tears,
Grief with a glass that ran,
Pleasure with pain for leaven,
Summer with flowers that fell,
Remembrance fallen from heaven,
And Madness risen from hell,
Strength without hands to smite,
Love that endures for a breath;
Night, the shadow of light,
And Life, the shadow of death.
The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays forever
Their red it never dies:
But Phillida, my Phillida!
Her color comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,--
It wavers to a rose.
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,
Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won
God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain
And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.
When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it--lie down for an æon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!
Ah, to think how thin the veil that lies
Between the pain of hell and paradise!
Oh would I were a boy again,
When life seemed formed of sunny years,
And all the heart then knew of pain
Was wept away in transient tears!
She's all my fancy painted her;
She's lovely, she's divine.
Note 7.The oft-quoted lines,--
A painted vest Prince Voltiger had on,
Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won,
have been ascribed to Blackmore, but suppressed in the later editions of his poems.
O Death the Healer, scorn thou not, I pray,
To come to me: of cureless ills thou art
The one physician. Pain lays not its touch
Upon a corpse.
Grammarian, orator, geometrician; painter, gymnastic teacher, physician; fortune-teller, rope-dancer, conjuror,--he knew everything.
Marius said, "I see the cure is not worth the pain."
Simonides calls painting silent poetry, and poetry speaking painting.
In a word, neither death, nor exile, nor pain, nor anything of this kind is the real cause of our doing or not doing any action, but our inward opinions and principles.
They can expect nothing but their labour for their pains.
When the head aches, all the members partake of the pain.
He has done like Orbaneja, the painter of Ubeda, who, being asked what he painted, answered, "As it may hit;" and when he had scrawled out a misshapen cock, was forced to write underneath, in Gothic letters, "This is a cock."
All our knowledge merely helps us to die a more painful death than the animals that know nothing. A day will come when science will turn upon its error and no longer hesitate to shorten our woes. A day will come when it will dare and act with certainty; when life, grown wiser, will depart silently at its hour, knowing that it has reached its term.
So long as man remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to find some one to worship.
Human pain meant but little in the Gulf War's visual grammar, a big feast of death to feed the cinecamera.
Everything we've experienced on earth seems to point toward the permanence of pain
He (Kafka) was a pilot of the pain of contemporary man
A saint's life, I suppose, is a kind of art, in which the material is not stone or words or paint but conduct
