Rise, brothers, rise; the wakening skies pray to the morning light, The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all night. Come, let us gather our nets from the shore and set our catamarans free, To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for we are the kings of the sea! No longer delay, let us hasten away in the track of the sea gull's call, The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our comrades all. What though we toss at the fall of the sun where the hand of the sea-god drives? He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide in his breast our lives. Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, and the scent of the mango grove, And sweet are the sands at the full o' the moon with the sound of the voices we love; But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam's glee; Row, brothers, row to the edge of the verge, where the low sky mates with the sea.
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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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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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Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific--and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
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So you think you can tell heaven from hell - blue skies from pain? Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail, a smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell? Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts - hot ashes for trees, hot air for a cool breeze, cold comfort for change? Did you exchange a walk-on part in a war for a lead role in a cage?
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Up above, what wind walks! What lovely behavior of silk-sack clouds has wilder, wilful, wavier, meal-drift molded over and melted across skies!
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We pray for one last landing On the globe that gave us birth; Let us rest our eyes on fleecy skies And the cool green hills of Earth.
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Your enjoyment of the world is never right, till every morning you awake in Heaven: see yourself in your Father's palace; and look upon the skies, the earth, and the air as celestial joys: having such a reverend esteem of all, as if you were among the angels.
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Come, fair repentance, daughter of the skies! Soft harbinger of soon returning virtue; The weeping messenger of grace from heaven.
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The new American finds his challenge and his love in the traffic-choked streets, skies nested in smog, choking with the acids of industry, the screech of rubber and houses leashed in against one another while the town lets wither a time and die.
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Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies: Yet, Cole! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand...
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The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.
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Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds, --and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of --Wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air... Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace Where never lark or even eagle flew -- And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God
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picture yourself in a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies. somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly a girl with kaleidoscope eyes.
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You must understand the whole of life, not just one little part of it. That is why you must read, that is why you must look at the skies, that is why you must sing and dance, and write poems, and suffer, and understand, for all that is life.
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There are two kinds of teachers: the kind that fill you with so much quail shot that you can't move, and the kind that just gives you a little prod behind and you jump to the skies.
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A novel is a mirror carried along a high road. At one moment it reflects to your vision the azure skies at another the mire of the puddles at your feet. And the man who carries this mirror in his pack will be accused by you of being immoral! His mirror shews the mire, and you blame the mirror! Rather blame that high road upon which the puddle lies, still more the inspector of roads who allows the water to gather and the puddle to form.
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Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings.
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Now you will recieve us! We do not ask for your poor or your hungry. We do not want your tired and sick. It is your corrupt we claim! It is your evil that will be sought by us. With every breath we shall hunt them down. Each day we will spill their blood, 'till it rains down from the skies! Do not kill, do not rape, do not steal. These are principles which every man of every faith can embrace! These are not polite suggestions. These are codes of behavior and those of you that ignore them will pay the dearest cost! There are varying degrees of evil. We urge you lesser forms of filth, not to push the bounds and cross over, into true corruption, into our domain. For if you do, one day you will look behind you and you will see we three and on that day YOU WILL REAP IT! And will send you to whatever god you wish.
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Never again may blood of bird or beast/ Stain with its venomous stream a human feast,/ To the pure skies in accusation steaming. “I wish no living thing to suffer pain."
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Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play, where never is heard a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day.
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Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;...
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Death cancels everything but truth; and strips a man of everything but genius and virtue. It is a sort of natural canonization. It makes the meanest of us sacred --it installs the poet in his immortality, and lifts him to the skies. Death is the greatest assayer of the sterling ore of talent. At his touch the dropsy particles fall off, the irritable, the personal, the gross, and mingle with the dust --the finer and more ethereal part mounts with winged spirit to watch over our latest memory, and protect our bones from insult. We consign the least worthy qualities to oblivion, and cherish the nobler and imperishable nature with double pride and fondness.
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Never again may blood of bird or beast/ Stain with its venomous stream a human feast,/ To the pure skies in accusation steaming. “I wish no living thing to suffer pain.'
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When clouds form in the skies we know that rain will follow but we must not wait for it. Nothing will be achieved by attempting to interfere with the future before the time is ripe. Patience is needed.
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'All that is best in me I have given to (animals) and I mean to stand by them to the last and share their fate whatever it may be. If it is true that there is to be no haven of rest for them when their sufferings here are at an end, I, for one, am not going to bargain for any heaven for myself. I shall go without fear where they go, and by the side of my brothers and sisters from the forests and the fields, from skies to seas, lie down to merciful extinction in their mysterious underworld, safe from any further torments.'
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Pale were your looks; and the rose in your tresses Paler of hue than the dreams we have lost; Who, then I said, is it sees or who guesses, Here in the hall, that I dance with a ghost? Gone! And the dance and the music are ended. Gone! And the rapture dies out of the skies. And, on my arm, in her elegance splendid, The woman of fashion smiles up in my eyes. Had I forgotten? and did you remember? You, who are dead, whom I cannot forget; You, for whose sake all my heart is an ember Covered with ashes of dreams and regret.
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Your friends praise your abilities to the skies, submit to you in argument, and seem to have the greatest deference for you; but, though they may ask it, you never find them following your advice upon their own affairs; nor allowing you to manage your own, without thinking that you should follow theirs. Thus, in fact, they all think themselves wiser than you, whatever they may say.
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Psalms 19:1:
For the director of music. A psalm of David. The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
(NIV)
To the Chief Musician. A Psalm of David. THE HEAVENS declare the glory of God; and the firmament shows and proclaims His handiwork. [Rom. 1:20, 21.](AMP)
The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork.
(KJV)
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The gates of Hell are open night and day Smooth the descent, and easy is the way But, to return, and view the cheerful skies In this, the task and mighty labor lies.
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