Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat, Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, Unseen thy little branches greet; ...No roving foot shall crush thee here, ...No busy hand provoke a tear. By Nature's self in white arrayed, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, And planted here the gaurdian shade, And sent soft waters murmuring by; ...Thus quietly thy summer goes, ...Thy days declinging to repose. Smit with those charms, that must decay, I grieve to see your future doom; They died--nor were those flowers more gay, The flowers that did in Eden bloom; ...Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power ...Shall leave no vestige of this flower. From morning suns and evenign dews At first thy little being came: If nothing once, you nothing lose, For when you die you are the same; ...The space between, is but an hour, ...The frail duration of a flower.
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One ship sails east and another sails west With the self-same winds that blow. Tis the set of the sail and not the gale Which determines the way they go. As the winds of the sea are the ways of fate As we voyage along through life, Tis the act of the soul that determines the goal, And not the calm or the strife.
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Don't stand beside my grave and weep, For I'm not there, I do not sleep, I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond's glint on snow, I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush, of quiet birds in circle flight, I am soft stars that shine at night, Don't stand beside my grave and cry, I am not there. I did not die.
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I think of myself as an intelligent, sensitive human with the soul of a clown, which always forces me to blow it at the most important moments.
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Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you... while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.
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O it's I that am the captain of a tidy little ship, Of a ship that goes a sailing on the pond; And my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about; But when I'm a little older, I shall find the secret out How to send my vessel sailing on beyond. For I mean to grow a little as the dolly at the helm, And the dolly I intend to come alive; And with him beside to help me, it's a-sailing I shall go, It's a-sailing on the water, when the jolly breezes blow And the vessel goes a dive-dive-dive. O it's then you'll see me sailing through the rushes and the reeds, And you'll hear the water singing at the prow; For beside the dolly sailor, I'm to voyage and explore, To land upon the island where no dolly was before, And to fire the penny cannon in the bow.
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When things go wrong, as they sometimes will, When the road you're trudging seems all uphill, When the funds are low and the debts are high And you want to smile, but you have to sigh, When care is pressing you down a bit, Rest! If you must-but never quit. Life is queer, with its twists and turns, As every one of us sometimes learns, And many a failure turns about When he might of won if he'd stuck it out; Stick to your task, though the pace seems slows- You may succeed with one more blow. Success is failure turned inside out- The silver tint of the clouds of doubt- And you may never can tell how close you are, It may be near when it seems afar; So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit- It's when things seem worse that YOU MUSN'T QUIT.
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Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.
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Natives who beat drums to drive off evil spirits are objects of scorn to smart Americans who blow horns to break up traffic jams.
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We've arranged a civilization in which most crucial elements profoundly depend on science and technology. We have also arranged things so that almost no one understands science and technology. This is a prescription for disaster. We might get away with it for a while, but sooner or later this combustible mixture of ignorance and power is going to blow up in our faces.
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Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.
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Get someone else to blow your horn and the sound will carry twice as far.
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Be able to blow out a dinner candle without sending wax flying across the table.
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One ship drives east and other drives west by the same winds that blow. It's the set of the sails and not the gales that determines the way they go.
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Is that the wind dying? O no; It's only two devils, that blow Through a murderer's bones, to and fro, In the ghosts' moonshine.
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A writer uses a pen instead of a scalpel or blow torch.
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I think the Spirit, is the one thing we have to rely on. It has been handed to us as a live and precious coal. And each generation has to make that decision whether they want to blow on that coal to keep it alive or throw it away... Our language, our histories and culture are like a big ceremonial fire that's been kicked and stomped and scattered...Out in the darkness we can see those coals glowing. But our generation, whether in tribal government or wherever we find ourselves--Choctaw, Cherokee, Chickasaw, Creek, Seminole--are coal gatherers. We bring the coals back, assemble them and breathe on them again, so we can spark a flame around which we might warm ourselves.
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The clever way death cuts us down, but makes it look like just a thinning-out. Generations never fall with one blow - that would be too sad and too obvious. Death prefers to do it piecemeal. The meadow is attacked from several sides at the same time. One of us goes one day; another some time afterwards; you have to stand back and look around you to take in what's missing, to grasp the vast slaughter of your generation...
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If ya ain't got it in ya, ya can't blow it out.
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Baseball is reassuring. It makes me feel as if the world is not going to blow up.
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Sir Walter, being strangely surprised and put out of his countenance at so great a table, gives his son a damned blow over the face. His son, as rude as he was, would not strike his father, but strikes over the face the gentleman that sat next to him and said Box about: twill come to my father anon.
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Sonny Hey, whataya gonna do, nice college boy, eh Didn't want to get mixed up in the Family business, huh Now you wanna gun down a police captain. Why Because he slapped ya in the face a little bit Hah What do you think this is the Army, where you shoot 'em a mile away You've gotta get up close like this and bada-bing. you blow their brains all over your nice Ivy League suit.
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We have met with so overwhelming an affliction in the death of our beloved Willie, a being too precious for this earth. All that human skill could do, was done for our sainted boy. I fully believe the severe illness [scarlet fever], he passed through, now, almost two years since, was but a warning to us, that one so pure, was not to remain long here and at the same time, he was lent us a little longer to try us and wean us from a world whose chains were fastening around us; and when the blow came it found us so unprepared to meet it. …He has fulfilled his mission and we are left desolate. When I think over his short but happy childhood, how much comfort, he always was to me, and how fearfully I always found my hopes concentrating on so good a boy as he was - when I can bring myself to realize that he has indeed passed away, my question to myself is, ‘ can life be endured?
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When nothing seems to help, I go and look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that blow that did it, bu
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There's that word again (harvest)! We persist in using the euphemism wherever the slaughtering of attractive animals is being talked about. Dammit, we kill them. We slaughter them, just like we slaughter cattle. We catch them in steel traps or blow them down with shotguns. We rip off their hides and wear their furs or hang their heads on den walls. We KILL THEM, we don't harvest them!! Someday we'll all grow up and face that reality.
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'There's no greater temptation than to use a protest to vent the frustration and anger that we all feel in the face of atrocity. Sometimes it feels really good to blow off steam at animal abusers and people who defend them. But the purpose of a demonstration is not to make us feel good. If we present the public with an image of animal activists as angry/hostile/crude, we have sacrificed the good of the animals for our own gratification.'
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There once was a Bald Man who sat down after work on a hot summer's day. A Fly came up and kept buzzing about his bald pate, and stinging him from time to time. The Man aimed a blow at his little enemy, but - whack - his palm come on his own head instead; again the Fly tormented him, but this time the Man was wiser and said: ''YOU WILL ONLY INJURE YOURSELF IF YOU TAKE NOTICE OF DISPICABLE ENEMIES.''
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One of the great reasons for the popularity of strikes is that they give the suppressed self a sense of power. For once the human tool knows itself a man, able to stand up and speak a word or strike a blow.
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The only preparations I made were getting ice, batteries, and canned foods. I also place my lawn furniture inside so that the wind will not blow it away.
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For there is no question but a just fear of an imminent danger, though there be no blow given, is a lawful cause of war.
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