Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving.
|
He was a friend to man, and lived in a house by the side of the road. HOMERThere are hermit souls that live withdrawnIn the peace of their self-content;There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,In a fellowless firmament;There are pioneer souls that blaze their pathsWhere highways never ran;But let me live by the side of the roadAnd be a friend to man. Let me live in a house by the side of the road,Where the race of men go byThe men who are good and the men who are bad,As good and as bad as I. I would not sit in the scorners seat,Or hurl the cynics ban;Let me live in a house by the side of the roadAnd be a friend to man. I see from my house by the side of the road,By the side of the highway of life,The men who press with the ardor of hope,The men who are faint with the strife. But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tearsBoth parts of an infinite plan;Let me live in my house by the side of the roadAnd be a friend to man. I know there are brook-gladdened meadows aheadAnd mountains of wearisome height;That the road passes on through the long afternoonAnd stretches away to the night. But still I rejoice when the travellers rejoice,And weep with the strangers that moan. Nor live in my house by the side of the roadLike a man who dwells alone. Let me live in my house by the side of the roadWhere the race of men go byThey are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,Wise, foolishso am I. Then why should I sit in the scorners seatOr hurl the cynics ban?Let me live in my house by the side of the roadAnd be a friend to man.
|
I do not ask to walk smooth paths nor bear an easy load. I pray for strength and fortitude to climb the rock strewn road. Give me such courage and I can scale the hardest peaks alone, And transform every stumbling block into a stepping stone.
|
As for Waldo, he died as the mist rises from the brook, which the sun will soon dart his rays through. Do not the flowers die every autumn? He...
|
Memory is a net: one that finds it full of fish when he takes it from the brook, but a dozen miles of water have run through it without sticking.
|
Perhaps, after all, our best thoughts come when we are alone. It is good to listen, not to voices but to the wind blowing, to the brook running cool over polished stones, to bees drowsy with the weight of pollen. If we attend to the music of the earth, we reach serenity. And then, in some unexplained way, we share it with others.
|
Many audiences all over the world will answer positively from their own experience that they have seen the face of the invisible through an experience on the stage that transcended their experience in life. They will maintain that Oedipus or Berenice or Hamlet or The Three Sisters performed with beauty and with love fires the spirit and gives them a reminder that daily drabness is not necessarily all.
|
We are aware that the conductor is not really making the music, it is making him -- if he is relaxed, open and attuned, then the invisible will take possession of him; through him, it will reach us.
|
What does education often do? It makes a straight-cut ditch of a free, meandering brook.
|
What does education often do It makes a straight-cut ditch of a free, meandering brook.
|
John 18:1:
When he had finished praying, Jesus left with his disciples and crossed the Kidron Valley. On the other side there was a garden, and he and his disciples went into it.
(NIV)
HAVING SAID these things, Jesus went out with His disciples beyond (across) the winter torrent of the Kidron [in the ravine]. There was a garden there, which He and His disciples entered.
(AMP)
When Jesus had spoken these words, he went forth with his disciples over the brook Cedron, where was a garden, into the which he entered, and his disciples.
(KJV)
|
Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.
|