Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly.
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Hold fast to dreams for if dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly.
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But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near;...
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Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving.
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Everything perfect in its kind has to transcend its own kind, it must become something different and incomparable. In some notes the nightingale is still a bird; then it rises above its class and seems to suggest to every winged creature what singing is truly like.
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He winged away on a wildgoup's chase across the kathartic ocean and made synthetic ink and sensitive paper for his own end out of his wit's wa...
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'I am the bubble gum that sticks in your hair!' 'I am the ingrown toenail on the foot of crime!' 'I am the itch you cannot reach!' 'I am the paper cut that ruins your day!' 'I am the parking meter that expires while you shop!' 'I am the plot-twist in the 2nd reel!' 'I am the terror that flaps in the night!' 'I am the weirdo who sits next to you on the bus!' 'I am the winged scourge that pecks at your nightmares!' 'I am the wrong number that wakes you at 3 am!'
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He who binds to himself a joy doth the winged life destroy. But he who kisses the joy as it flies lives in Eternity's sunrise.
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What is it but deliberate massacre when tens of thousands of tame, hand-reared creatures are every year literally driven into the jaws of death and mown down in a peculiarly brutal manner? A perfect roar of guns fills the air; louder tap and yell the beaters, while above the din can be heard the heart-rending cries of wounded hares and rabbits, some of which can be seen dragging themselves away, with legs broken, or turning round and round in their agony before they die! And the pheasants! They are on every side, some rising, some dropping; some lying dead, but the great majority fluttering on the ground wounded; some with both wings broken and a leg; others merely winged, running to hide; others mortally wounded, gasping out their last breath amidst the hellish uproar which surrounds them. And this is called 'sport!'
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As the eagle was killed by the arrow winged with his own feather, so the hand of the world is wounded by its own skill.
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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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By words the mind is winged.
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While the fates permit, live happily life speeds on with hurried step, and with winged days the wheel of the headlong year is turned.
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He who binds to himself a joy Does the winged life destroy But he who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in eternity's sun rise.
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While the fates permit, live happily; life speeds on with hurried step, and with winged days the wheel of the headlong year is turned.
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Our treasure lies in the beehive of our knowledge. We are perpetually on the way thither, being by nature winged insects and honey gatherers of the mind.
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The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls Are their males' subjects and at their controls:...
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Love to faults is always blind, always is to joy inclined. Lawless, winged, and unconfined, and breaks all chains from every mind.
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In old days there were angels who came and took men by the hand and led them away from the city of destruction. We see no white-winged angels now. But yet men are led away from threatening destruction: a hand is put into theirs, which leads them forth gently towards a calm and bright land, so that they look no more backward; and the hand may be a little child's.
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What is life but an endless flight of winged facts or events?
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