Quotes
Quotes about Rest
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest! . . . . By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.
My sorrows are overwhelming, but my virtue is left to me. [Fr., Mes malheurs sont combles, mais ma vertu me reste.]
One truth stands firm. All that happens in world history rests on something spiritual. If the spiritual is strong, it creates world history. If it is weak, it suffers world history.
Whether we name divine presence synchronicity, serendipity, or graced moment matters little. What matters is the reality that our hearts have been understood. Nothing is as real as a healthy dose of magic which restores our spirits.
The ardent golfer would play Mount Everest if somebody would put a flagstick on top.
If you can react the same way to winning and losing, that's a big accomplishment... quality is important because it stays with you the rest of your life, and there's going to be a life after tennis that's a lot longer than your tennis life.
Wrestling is ballet with violence.
You find that you have peace of mind and can enjoy yourself, get more sleep, and rest when you know that it was a one hundred percent effort that you gaveâwin or lose.
There are people who think that wrestling is an ignoble sport. Wrestling is not sport, it is a spectacle, and it is no more ignoble to attend a wrestled performance of suffering than a performance of the sorrows of Arnolphe or Andromaque.
Being a woman is of special interest only to aspiring male transsexuals. To actual women it is merely a good excuse not to play football.
It is one of the happy incidents of the federal system that a single courageous State may, if its citizens choose, serve as a laboratory; and try novel social and economic experiments without risk to the rest of the country.
Who would not praise Patrico's high desert, His hand unstain'd, his uncorrupted heart, His comprehensive head? all interests weigh'd, All Europe sav'd, yet Britain not betray'd.
Why forego the advantages of so peculiar a situation?--Why quit our own to stand upon foreign ground?--Why by interweaving our destiny with that of any part of Europe, entangle our peace and prosperity in the toils of European ambition, rivalship, interest, humour or caprice?
And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.
I am still of opinion that only two topics can be of the least interest to a serious and studious mood--sex and the dead.
The fault rests with the gods, who have made her so stupid. [Lat., La faute en est aux dieux, qui la firent si bete.]
These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So ling lives this, and this gives life to thee.
When the Sun Clearest shineth Serenest in the heaven, Quickly are obscured All over the earth Other stars.
See the sun! God's crest upon His azure shield, the Heavens.
O God! methinks it were a happy life To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes, how they run-- How many makes the hour full complete, How many hours brings about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live; When this is known, then to divide the times-- So many hours must I tend my flock, So many hours must I take my rest, So many hours must I contemplate, So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young, So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean, So many months ere I shall shear the fleece. So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Passed over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this!
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape; Trinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
Now in his Palace of the West, Sinking to slumber, the bright Day, Like a tired monarch fann'd to rest, 'Mid the cool airs of Evening lay; While round his couch's golden rim The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept-- Struggling each other's light to dim, And catch his last smile e'er he slept.
Methought little space 'tween those hills intervened, But nearer,--more lofty,--more shaggy they seemed. The clouds o'er their summits they calmly did rest, And hung on the ether's invisible breast; Than the vapours of earth they seemed purer, more bright,-- Oh! could they be clouds? 'Twas the necklace of night.
