The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering. I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. The last scud of the day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk. I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre for your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.
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The pessimist complains about the wind. The optimist expects it to change. The leader adjusts the sails.
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He takes the ball every day, he never complains and he gets the job done. He has nasty stuff. He warms up quick to get in a game.
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The pessimist complains about the wind the optimist expects it to change the realist adjusts the sails.
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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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When a young man complains that a young lady has no heart, it is a pretty certain sign that she has his.
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I was brought up in the great tradition of the late nineteenth century: that a writer never complains, never explains and never disdains.
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The pessimist complains about the wind; The optimist expects it to change; And the realist adjusts the sails.
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It is only imperfection that complains of what is imperfect. The more perfect we are, the more gentle and quiet we become toward the defects of others.
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A guy complains of a headache. Another guy says, 'Do what I do. I put my head on my wife's bosom, and the headache goes away.' The next day, the man says, 'Did you do what I told you to?' 'Yes, I sure did. By the way, you have a nice house!'
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The ox suffers, the cart complains.
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No one ever complains about a speech being too short!
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I was brought up in the great tradition of the late nineteenth century: that a writer never complains, never explains and never disdains
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No great man ever complains of want of opportunity.
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It is only imperfection that complains of what is imperfect. The more perfect we are the more gentle and quiet we become towards the defects of others.
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The pessimist complains about the direction of the wind, the optimist expects the direction to change, but the leader simply adjusts the sails!
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Patience is the virtue of an ass, who treads beneath his burden and complains not.
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A fool bolts pleasure, then complains of moral indigestion.
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If a chick ever complains about being 'fat' just tell her you know an exercise that burns 500 calories an hour.. unless she really is fat, then just shutup.
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Everyone complains of his lack of memory, but nobody of his want of judgment.
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My son complains about headaches. I tell him all the time, when you get out of bed, it's feet first!
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When a man bores a woman, she complains. When a woman bores a man, he ignores her.
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The one who complains about the way the ball bounces is likely the one who dropped it
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Everyone complains of his memory, and nobody complains of his judgment.
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Everyone complains of his memory, none of his judgment.
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