My skin is kind of sort of brownish Pinkish yellowish white. My eyes are greyish blueish green, But I'm told they look orange in the night. My hair is reddish blondish brown, But it's silver when it's wet. And all the colors I am inside Have not been invented yet.
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The shades of night were falling fast,As though an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,ExcelsiorHis brow was sad his eye beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior
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'Guess now who holds thee?'—'Death,' I said. But, there, The silver answer rang, . . . 'Not Death, but Love.'
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Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks.
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'Maman', said Annaïse, her voice strangely weak. 'Here is the water.' A thin blade of silver came forward in the plain and the peasants...
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Genius is a bend in the creek where bright water has gathered, and which mirrors the trees, the sky and the banks. It just does that because it is there and the scenery is there. Talent is a fine mirror with a silver frame, with the name of the owner engraved on the back.
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Naked as paper to start But in twenty-five years she'll be silver, In fifty, gold.
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I have a Vision of the Future, chum. The workers flats in fields of soya beans tower up like silver pencils, score on score.
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Come live with me, and be my love, and we will some new pleasures prove, Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines and silver hooks
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If alcohol is queen, then tobacco is her consort. It's a fond companion for all occasions, a loyal friend through fair weather and foul. People smoke to celebrate a happy moment, or to hide a bitter regret. Whether you're alone or with friends, it's a joy for all the senses. What lovelier sight is there than that double row of white cigarettes, lined up like soldiers on parade and wrapped in silver paper? I love to touch the pack in my pocket, open it, savor the feel of the cigarette between my fingers, the paper on my lips, the taste of tobacco on my tongue. I love to watch the flame spurt up, love to watch it come closer and closer, filling me with its warmth.
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Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feathered bosom Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset Rich, deep like love in beauty without end.
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Not all treasure is silver and gold, mate.
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When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean And billows wild contend with angry roar, 'Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore. Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth And silver waves chime ever peacefully, And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flyeth Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea.
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Come live with me, and be my love,And we will some new pleasures proveOf golden sands, and crystal brooks,With silken lines, and silver hooks.
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This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,-- This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
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Walked forth to ease my pain Along the shore of silver streaming Thames,...
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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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Money indeed may be considered as the most universal and expressive of all languages. For gold and silver coins are no more money when not in ...
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For all the gold and silver stolen and shipped to Spain did not make the Spanish people richer. It gave their kings an edge in the balance of power for a time, a chance to hire more mercenary soldiers for their wars. They ended up losing those wars anyway, and all that was left was a deadly inflation, a starving population, the rich richer, the poor poorer, and a ruined peasant class.
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The first question which you will ask and which I must try to answer is this, What is the use of climbing Mount Everest? and my answer must at once be, It is no use. There is not the slightest prospect of any gain whatsoever. Oh, we may learn a little about the behaviour of the human body at high altitudes, and possibly medical men may turn our observation to some account for the purposes of aviation. But otherwise nothing will come of it. We shall not bring back a single bit of gold or silver, not a gem, nor any coal or iron. We shall not find a single foot of earth that can be planted with crops to raise food. It's no use. So, if you cannot understand that there is something in man which responds to the challenge of this mountain and goes out to meet it, that the struggle is the struggle of life itself upward and forever upward, then you won't see why we go. What we get from this adventure is just sheer joy. And joy is, after all, the end of life. We do not live to eat and make money. We eat and make money to be able to enjoy life. That is what life means and what life is for.
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I assure you that the training that you get in a midget, in a sprint car and perhaps in a Silver Crown car is really the kind of experience that makes you into a damn good race driver.
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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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For in the true nature of things, if we rightly consider, every green tree is far more glorious than if it were made of gold and silver.
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Every man was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
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Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
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Ve den, som sviker svuret ord. Ve den, vars hjärta rimmar falskt. Ve den, som sätter silver före plikt.
När slaget timar, vik då icke från din herres sida. När fränder sviker, stå då bergfast vid din post. När modet faller, surra då handen vid yxan.
Vid din herres röst, lystra och lär. Vid din herres tanke, tig och förstå. Vid din herres befallning, lyd med gott mod.
Din veka syn till trots, möt hans fiende med blicken. Din ledna arm till trots, möt hans fiende med svärdet. Din tarvliga lekamen till trots, låt den skydda din herre.
Ve den, som sviker sin herre i blodstider. Må han förtvina i vanära. Må han plikta med sitt liv.
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God doesn't seek for golden vessels, and does not ask for silver ones, but He must have clean ones.
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This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,-- This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
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There is nothing here [Civita Vecchia] to see. They have not even a cathedral, with eleven tons of solid silver archbishops in the back room; ...
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The shades of night were falling fast, As though an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior! His brow was sad; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior!
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