Eagerly, musician,Sweep your string,So we may sing,Elated, optative,Our several voicesInterblending,Playfully contending,Not interferingBut co-inhering,For all withinThe cincture of the soundIs holy ground,Where all are Brothers,None faceless Others. Let mortals bewareOf words, forWith words we lie,Can say peaceWhen we mean war,Foul thought speak fairAnd promise falsely,But song is true:Let music for peaceBe the paradigm,For peace means to changeAt the right time,As the World-Clock,Goes Tick and Tock. So may the storyOf our human cityPresently moveLike music, whenBegotten notesNew notes beget,Making the flowingOf time a growing,Till what it could be,At last it is,Where even sadnessIs a form of gladness,Where Fate is Freedom,Grace and Surprise.
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The stormy March has come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies.
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We are students of words: we are shut up in schools, and colleges, and recitation-rooms, for ten or fifteen years, and come out at last with a...
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I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always a nostalgia for a home they know not. They are strangers at their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played, remain but a place of passage. They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever knows. Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to which they may attach themselves. Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history. Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest.
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Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at last you create what you will.
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Earth has waited for them, All the time of their growth Fretting for their decay: Now she has them at last!
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At last is Hector stretch'd upon the plain,Who fear'd no vengeance for Patroclus slainThen, Prince You should have fear'd, what now you feelAchilles absent was Achilles stillYet a short space the great avenger stayed,Then low in dust thy strength and glory laid.
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Every hero becomes a bore at last.
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I cannot bear it! said the pewter soldier. I have shed pewter tears! It is too melancholy! Rather let me go to the wars and lose arms and legs! It would at least be a change. I cannot bear it longer! Now, I know what it is to have a visit from one's old thoughts, with what they may bring with them! I have had a visit from mine, and you may be sure it is no pleasant thing in the end; I was at last about to jump down from the drawers.
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And come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but death who comes at last.
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The praise of those who sleep in earth,The pleasant memory of their worth,The hope to meet when life is past,Shall heal the tortured mind at last.
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The logic of worldly success rests on a fallacy: the strange error that our perfection depends on the thoughts and opinions and applause of other men! A weird life it is, indeed, to be living always in somebody else's imagination, as if that were the only place in which one could at last become real.
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And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but death who comes at last.
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And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but death who comes at last.
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Husband and wife come to look alike at last
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Spring has sprung. We're free at last, people. Free at last. Thank you mother nature, we're free. Time to toss open that metaphysical window and check out that psychic landscape. See lots of possibilities budding out there. Time to hoe those rows, feed that seed. Pretty soon you get a garden.
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If it all be for naught, for nothingness at last, Why does God make the world so fair? Why spill this golden splendor out across the western hills, And light the silver lamp of eve? Why give me eyes to see, and soul to love so strong and deep? Then, with a pang this brightness stabs me through, And wakes within rebellious voice to cry against all death? Why set this hunger for eternity to gnaw my heartstrings through, If death ends all? If death ends all, then evil must be good, Wrong must be right, and beauty ugliness. God is Judas who betrays His Son, And with a kiss, damns all the world to Hell, -- If Christ rose not again.
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I am here because there is no refuge, Finally, from myself, Until I confront myself in the eyes And hearts of others, I am running. Until I suffer them to share my secrets, I have no safety from them. Afraid to be known, I can know neither myself Nor any others; I will be alone. Where else but on this common ground, Can I find such a mirror? Here, together, I can at last appear Clearly to myself, Not as the giant of my dreams, Not the dwarf of my fears, But as a person, part of a whole, With my share in its purpose. In this ground, I can take root and grow. Not alone anymore, as in death, But alive, to my self and to others.
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Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, as that does which at last eats out the very heart and substance of the metal.
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Of all the various kinds of sexual intercourse, this has the least to recommend it. As an amusement, it is too fleeting; as an occupation, it is too wearing; as a public exhibition, there is no money in it. It is unsuited to the drawing room, and in the most cultured society it has long been banished from the social board. It has at last, in our day of progress and improvement, been degraded to brotherhood with flatulence. Among the best bred, these two arts are now indulged only in private--- though by consent of the whole company, when only males are present, it is still permissible, in good society, to remove the embargo on the fundamental sigh.
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In Pierre Elliott Trudeau, Canada has at last produced a political leader worthy of assassination.
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I phoned Midori. 'I have to talk to you' I said. 'I have a million things to talk to you about. A million things we have to talk about. All I want in this world is you. I want to see you and talk. I want the two of us to begin everything from the beginning'. Midori responded with a long, long silence - the silence of all the misty rain in the world falling on all the new-mown lawns of the world. Forehead pressed against the glass, I shut my eyes and waited. At last, Midori's quiet voice broke the silence: 'Where are you now?' Where was I now? Gripping the receiver, I raised my head and turned to see what lay beyond the phone box. Where was I now? I had no idea. No idea at all. Where was this place? All that flashed into my eyes were the countless shapes of people walking by to nowhere. Again and again I called out for Midori from the dead centre of this place that was no place.
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The falling drops at last will wear the stone.
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The same person has come to Me seeking success at the examination, then a job, then a father-in-law, then a child, then a rise in the salary, a transfer in a cheaper place and a seat in the Medical College for his son - a never ending series of wants, until at last he comes seeking My Grace for an end to worldly pursuits and for initiation into the path of spirituality.
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The fool has to do at last what the wise did at first.
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Are we at last brought to such a humiliating and debasing degradation, that we cannot be trusted with arms for our own defence Where is the difference between having our arms in our own possession and under our own direction, and having them under the management of Congress If our defence be therealobject of having those arms, in whose hands can they be trusted with more propriety, or equal safety to us, as in our own hands
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The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land.
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She passes the houses which humbly crowd outside, The gasworks and at last the heavy page...
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Constant revolutionizing of production distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones. All fixed, fast-frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses, his real conditions of life, and his relations with his kind.
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I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the Stern Fact, the Sad Self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from.
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