Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shorless seas. The good Mate said, Now we must pray, For lo! the very stars are gone. Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say? Why say, 'Sail on! sail on! and on! My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak! The stout Mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wavewashed his swarthy cheek. What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn? Why, you shall say at break of day, 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!' They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the Mate; This mad sea shows its teeth tonight. He curls his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Admiral, say but one good word; What shall we do when hope is gone? The words leapt like a leaping sword; Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on! Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck And peered through darkness. Ah! that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck -- A light! A light! A light! A light! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its greatest lesson: On! sail on!
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January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps - but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
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A late lark twitters from the quiet skies: And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, gray city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace.
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No gray hairs streak my soul, no grandfatherly fondness there! I shake the world with the might of my voice, and walk --handsome, twenty-two year old.
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The most important outcome of education is to help students become independent of formal education.
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Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, From North and South, come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before. What moistens the lips and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?
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Soon silence will have passed into legend. Man has turned his back on silence. Day after day he invents machines and devices that increase noise and distract humanity from the essence of life, contemplation, meditation. Tooting, howling, screeching, booming, crashing, whistling, grinding, and trilling bolster his ego. His anxiety subsides. His inhuman void spreads on like a gray vegetation.
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Man's feeble race what ills await! Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,...
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Breathe deep the gathering gloom Watchlights fade from every room Bedsitter people look back and lament Another days useless energies spent Empassioned lovers wrestle as one Lonely man cries for love and has none New mother picks up and settles her son Senior citizens wish they were young Cold hearted orb that rules the night Removes the colors from our sight Red is gray and yellow white But we decide which is right And which is an illusion
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In December 2004, the Osage Nation of Oklahoma won its battle in Congress to determine our own laws and citizenship, ... It was the end of a long road to independence for our tribe, but the beginning of what we feel is most precious: our sovereignty. I am often asked if gaming has taken over the national debate on Indians in America. But gaming is an extension of our sovereignty, not the other way around and we cannot allow others to frame our issues for us. As Indian people, sovereignty comes first.
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No gray hairs streak my soul, no grandfatherly fondness there I shake the world with the might of my voice, and walk-handsome, twentytwoyearold.
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January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
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Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, he had not the method of making a fortune.
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Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head.
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Here with hosts of friends I revel who can never change or chill; Though the fleeting years and seasons they are fair and faithful still! Kings and courtiers, knights and jesters, belles and beaux of far away, Meet and mingle with the beauties and the heroes of to-day. All the lore of ancient sages, all the light of souls divine, All the music, wit and wisdom of the gray old world is mine, Garnered here where fall the shadows of the mystic pineland's gloom! And I sway an airy kingdom from my little book-lined room.
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Yet ah why should they know their fateSince sorrow never comes too late,And happiness too swiftly flies.Thought would destroy their paradise.No more where ignorance is bliss,'Tis folly to be wise.
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Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back With dying eyes and lolling heads, those ashen-gray...
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Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.
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Far better is it to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure... than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in a gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.
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A family is a family not because of gender but because of values, like commitment, trust and love.
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Gray hairs seem to my fancy like the soft light of the moon, silvering over the evening of life.
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All theory, dear friend, is gray, but the golden tree of life springs ever green.
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'Weave the warp and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
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What economy of colors there, compared to a tropical fish or a sunrise or even a pigeon's neck -- dull red, indistinct gray buff, some splotches of green. But what opulence of forms -- serpents, goblets, tapestries, coils, pouches, conch shells, washboards, sheets, waves, curls, fountains of translucent tissue.
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old Death, dusty gardener, are you alive yet, do I live on yet, in your gray considering eye?
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Out of damp and gloomy days, out of solitude, out of loveless words directed at us, conclusions grow up in us like fungus one morning they are there, we know not how, and they gaze upon us, morose and gray. Woe to the thinker who is not the gardener but only the soil of the plants that grow in him
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I found this in an electronic commerce software example products file (Goldpaint):
[Pocket Lawyer] [stuffed person] [What a unique gift for your favorite lawyer or friends who needs one! Just squeeze him and hear legal phrases like, 'My client is innocent', 'This is an outrage', 'I'll see you in court', and 'Pay up you dead beat.' He carries a briefcase and is dressed in a gray suit, white shirt and striped tie. He measures 7' tall and comes with a life-time battery included. Our pocket lawyer -- don't go to court without him.]
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Life stood on the top stair a moment Waved her last gray slander down the stair,...
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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The misery of the middle-aged woman is a gray and hopeless thing, born of having nothing to live for, of disappointment and resentment at having been gypped by consumer society, and surviving merely to be the butt of its unthinking scorn.
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