Quotes
Quotes about Pen
She who from April dates her years, Diamonds should wear, lest bitter tears For vain repentance flow; this stone, Emblem of innocence is known.
When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multiple OF golden chalices to humming birds And silken-wing'd insects of the sky.
When I lately stood with a friend before [the cathedral of] Amiens, . . . he asked me how it happens that we can no longer build such piles? I replied: "Dear Alphonse, men in those days had convictions (Ueberzeugungen), we moderns have opinions (Meinungen) and it requires something more than an opinion to build a Gothic cathedral.
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; Still born to improve in every part, His pencil out faces, his manners are heart.
Art at its most significant is a Distant Early Warning System that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.
Art happens - no hovel is safe from it, no prince may depend upon it, the vastest intelligence cannot bring it about.
Rice Krispies happens to be one of my favorite junk foods, just as I regard Michener as superior among junk writers.
Dying is the most embarrassing thing that can ever happen to you, because someone's got to take care of all your details.
When Michelangelo finished the painting of the Sistine Chapel's ceiling, he spent the rest of his life trying to remove the paint that had poured into his sleeve.
Modern art is what happens when painters stop looking at girls and persuade themselves that they have a better idea.
Art is... a question mark in the minds of those who want to know what's happening.
Life can be wildly tragic at times, and I've had my share. But whatever happens to you, you have to keep a slightly comic attitude. In the final analysis, you have got not to forget to laugh.
Life is the movie you see through your own eyes. It makes little difference what's happening out there. It's how you take it that counts.
I've learned from experience that the greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances.
I happen to feel that the degree of a person's intelligence is directly reflected by the number of conflicting attitudes she can bring to bear on the same topic.
The sin of Judah is written with a pen of iron, and with the point of a diamond: it is graven upon the table of their heart, and upon the horns of your altars; Whilst their children remember their altars and their groves by the green trees upon the high hills.
As so I penned It down, until at last it came to be, For length and breadth, the bigness which you see.
The pen is the tongue of the mind. [Sp., La pluma es lengua del alma.]
No call has ever poisoned by pen. [Fr., Aucun fiel n'a jamais empoisonne ma plumme.]
Yellow, mellow, ripened days, Sheltered in a golden coating; O'er the dreamy, listless haze, White and dainty cloudlets floating; Winking at the blushing trees, And the sombre, furrowed fallow; Smiling at the airy ease, Of the southward flying swallow Sweet and smiling are thy ways, Beauteous, golden Autumn days.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core.
The man who is aware of himself is henceforward independent; and he is never bored, and life is only too short, and he is steeped through and through with a profound yet temperate happiness.
Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, To hail his father; while his little form Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of pain! The childless cherubs well might envy thee The pleasures of a parent.
Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps; Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes.
O child! O new-born denizen Of life's great city! on thy head The glory of morn is shed, Like a celestial benison! Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future's undiscovered land.
