A primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more.
A primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more.
We quaff the cup of life with eager haste without draining it, instead of which it only overflows the brim --objects press around us, filling the mind with their magnitude and with the throng of desires that wait upon them. . .
Life's enchanted cup sparkles near the brim.
Day Faster and more fast. Oer nights brim, day boils at last.
Life is a magic vase filled to the brim so made that you cannot dip into it nor draw from it but it overflows into the hand that drops treasures into it - drop in malice and it overflows hate drop in charity and it overflows lo.
Fill your bowl to the brim and it will spill. Keep sharpening your knife and it will blunt.
If you cannot inspire a woman with love of you, fill her above the brim with love of herself; all that runs over will be yours.
Time does not bring relief you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain I miss him in the weeping of the rain I want him at the shrinking of the tide The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane But last year's bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide There are a hundred places where I fear To go, so with his memory they brim And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, There is no memory of him here And so stand stricken, so remembering him.
Dance and Provencal song and sunburnt mirth Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-staind mouth.
Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb And Life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
The lover of child Marjory
Had one white hour of life brim full;
Now the old nurse, the rocking sea,
Hath him to lull.
O my Bergson, you are a magician, and your book is a marvel, a real wonder in the history of philosophy ... In finishing it I found ... such a flavor of persistent euphony, as of a rich river that never foamed or ran thin, but steadily and firmly proceeded with its banks full to the brim.
The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles, winking at the brim.
There is a cheap literature that speaks to us of the need of escape. It is true that when we travel we are in search of distance. But distance is not to be found. It melts away. And escape has never led anywhere. The moment a man finds that he must play the races, go the Arctic, or make war in order to feel himself alive, that man has begin to spin the strands that bind him to other men and to the world. But what wretched strands A civilization that is really strong fills man to the brim, though he never stir. What are we worth when motionless, is the question.
The blood of babes is on his sword;
His life is evil to the brim:
Look down, decree his doom, O Lord!
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories