Oh the thumb-sucker's thumb May look wrinkled and wet And withered, and white as the snow, But the taste of a thumb Is the sweetest taste yet (As only we thumb-sucker's know).
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My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.
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The summer day is closed - the sun is set: Well they have done their office, those bright hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out In the red west. The green blade of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil, From bursting cells, and in their graves await Their resurrection. Insects from the pools Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, That now are still for ever; painted moths Have wandered the blue sky, and died again
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The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away
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Vain are the thousand creeds that move men's hearts, unutterably vain; Worthless as withered weeds, or idlest froth amid the boundless main.
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Goodbye, goodbye, I hate the word. Solitude has long since turned brown and withered, sitting bitter in my mouth and heavy in my veins.
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In the cold change which time hath wrought on love (The snowy winter of his summer prime), Should a chance sigh or sudden tear-drop move Thy heart to memory of the olden time; Turn not to gaze on me with pitying eyes, Nor mock me with a withered hope renewed; But from the bower we both have loved, arise And leave me to my barren solitude! What boots it that a momentary flame Shoots from the ashes of a dying fire? We gaze upon the hearth from whence it came, And know the exhausted embers must expire: Therefore no pity, or my heart will break; Be cold, be careless--for thy past love's sake!
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A good character is the best tombstone. Those who loved you and were helped by you will remember you when forget-me-nots have withered. Carve your name on hearts, not on marble.
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A good character is the best tombstone. Those who loved you, and were helped by you, will remember you when forget-me-nots are withered. Carve your name on hearts, and not on marble.
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John 5:3:
Here a great number of disabled people used to lie – the blind, the lame, the paralyzed.
(NIV)
In these lay a great number of sick folk--some blind, some crippled, and some paralyzed (shriveled up)-- waiting for the bubbling up of the water.
(AMP)
In these lay a great multitude of impotent folk, of blind, halt, withered, waiting for the moving of the water.
(KJV)
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France was a land, England was a people, but America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was harder to utter -- it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart.
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Luke 6:8:
But Jesus knew what they were thinking and said to the man with the shriveled hand, 'Get up and stand in front of everyone.' So he got up and stood there.
(NIV)
But He was aware all along of their thoughts, and He said to the man with the withered hand, Come and stand here in the midst. And he arose and stood there.
(AMP)
But he knew their thoughts, and said to the man which had the withered hand, Rise up, and stand forth in the midst. And he arose and stood forth.
(KJV)
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Mark 3:1:
Another time Jesus went into the synagogue, and a man with a shriveled hand was there.
(NIV)
AGAIN JESUS went into a synagogue, and a man was there who had one withered hand [as the result of accident or disease].
(AMP)
And he entered again into the synagogue; and there was a man there which had a withered hand.
(KJV)
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