38 match(es) found in quotations


Quotations
Amaru :
Love is sinister, is mean to us in separation; makes our thin bodies thinner. This fellow Death lacks mercy and is good at counting our days. And Master, you, too, are subject to the plague of jealousy so think: how could womenfolk, soft as sprouts, live like this?
[Amaru (c. seventh century A.D.), Kashmirian king, compiler, author of some of the poems in the anthology which bears his name. translated from the Amaruataka by Martha Ann Selby, vs. 67, Motilal Banarsidass (1983).]
Read more quotations about / on: death, love
Hla Stavhana :
Even by noon of the very first day, she'd etched the wall with lines, counting he left today, he left today, he left today.
[Hla Stavhana (c. 50 A.D.), South Indian king, Prkrit poet. translated from The Gthsaptaat of Stavhana Hla by Martha Ann Selby, vs. 308, Nir.N»aya Sgara Press (1889).]
Read more quotations about / on: today
Henry David Thoreau :
The life in us is like the water in the river. It may rise this year higher than man has ever known it, and flood the parched uplands; even this may be the eventful year, which will drown out all our muskrats. It was not always dry land where we dwell. I see far inland the banks which the stream anciently washed, before science began to record its freshets. Every one has heard the story which has gone the rounds of New England, of a strong and beautiful bug which came out of the dry leaf of an old table of apple-tree wood, which had stood in a farmer's kitchen for sixty years, first in Connecticut, and afterward in Massachusetts,—from an egg deposited in the living tree many years earlier still, as appeared by counting the annual layers beyond it; which was heard gnawing out for several weeks, hatched perchance by the heat of an urn. Who does not feel his faith in a resurrection and immortality strengthened by hearing of this? Who knows what beautiful and winged life, whose egg has been buried for ages under many concentric layers of woodenness in the dead dry life of society, deposited at first in the alburnum of the green and living tree, which has been gradually converted into the semblance of its well-seasoned tomb,—heard perchance gnawing out now for years by the astonished family of man, as they sat round the festal board,—may unexpectedly come forth from amidst society's most trivial and handselled furniture, to enjoy its perfect summer life at last! I do not say that John or Jonathan will realize all this; but such is the character of that morrow which mere lapse of time can never make to dawn. The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us. Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.
[Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), U.S. philosopher, author, naturalist. Walden (1854), in The Writings of Henry David Thoreau, vol. 2, pp. 366-367, Houghton Mifflin (1906). "John or Jonathan" refer to the two stereotypes of England and America during Thoreau's day: John Bull and his wayward son, "Jonathan" (the predecessor of "Uncle Sam").]
Read more quotations about / on: life
Nick Kler :
Staring at the space Oh! what a lonely place Counting stars all night long One by one, they also disappeared From this vast, fervid sky Nick Kler
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William Shakespeare :
How fearful And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade!
[William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British dramatist, poet. Edgar, in King Lear, act 4, sc. 6, l. 11-15. Imagining the prospect from the cliffs at Dover; "choughs" means crows or jackdaws; "gross" means large; samphire is a herb used in pickling.]
Allen Tate :
And there is nothing in the eye, Shut shutter of the mineral man Who takes the fatherless dark to bed, The acid sky to the brain-pan; And calls the crows to peck his head.
[Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "The Eye."]
Read more quotations about / on: sky, dark
Thomas Bonham :
Whenas the Chill Sirocco blowes, And Winter tells a heavy tale; When Pyes and Dawes and Rookes and Crows, Sit cursing of the frosts and snowes; Then give me Ale.
[Thomas Bonham (d. 1629?), British poet. In Paise of Ale (attributed to Bonham) (l. 1-5). . . Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1918. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (New ed., rev. and enl., 1939) Oxford University Press.]
Read more quotations about / on: winter
Hla Stavhana :
The beggar gazes at her round navel and she at the moon, his face, while crows are pecking at her ladle and his begging-bowl.
[Hla Stavhana (c. 50 A.D.), South Indian king, Prkrit poet. translated from The Gthsaptaat of Stavhana Hla by Martha Ann Selby, vs. 162, Nir.N»aya Sgara Press (1889).]
Read more quotations about / on: moon
Sylvia Plath :
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia Of your left ear, out of the wind, Counting the red stars and those of plum-color. The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
[Sylvia Plath (1932-1963), U.S. poet. The Colossus (l. 24-26). . . The Collected Poems [Sylvia Plath]. Ted Hughes, ed. (1981) HarperCollins.]
Read more quotations about / on: color, red, wind, sun
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. :
Now you know very well that there are no less than fifty-eight different pieces in a violin. These pieces are strangers to each other, and it takes a century, more or less, to make them thoroughly acquainted. At last they learn to vibrate in harmony, and the instrument becomes an organic whole, as if it were a great seed-capsule which had grown from a garden-bed in Cremona, or elsewhere. Besides, the wood is juicy and full of sap for fifty years or so, but at the end of fifty or hundred years gets tolerably dry and comparatively resonant. Don't you see that all this is just as true of a poem? Counting each word as a piece, there are more pieces in an average copy of verses than in a violin. The poet has forced all these words together, and fastened them, and they don't understand it at first. But let the poem be repeated aloud and murmured over in the mind's muffled whisper often enough, and at length the parts become knit together in such absolute solidarity that you could not change a syllable without the whole world's crying out against you for meddling with the harmonious fabric. Observe, too, how the drying process takes place in the stuff of a poem just as in that of a violin.
[Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. (1809-1894), U.S. essayist, poet, physician. The Autocrat at the Breakfast Table, ch. 5 (1858).]
Read more quotations about / on: poem, together
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