The prey of fear, he, always curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly done, says to the alternating blaze, 'Again the sun anew each day and new and new and new, that comes into and steadies my soul.'
The prey of fear, he, always curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly done, says to the alternating blaze, 'Again the sun anew each day and new and new and new, that comes into and steadies my soul.'
The sweet air coming into your house on a fine day, from water etched with waves as formal as the scales on a fish.
They say there is a sweeter air where it was made, than we have here.
I am troubled, I'm dissatisfied, I'm Irish.
HE MADE THIS SCREEN not of silver nor of coral, but of weatherbeaten laurel. Here, he introduced a sea uniform like tapestry here, a fig-tree there, a face there, a dragon circling space designating here, a bower there, a pointed passion-flower.
The mind is an enchanting thing is an enchanted thing, like the glaze on a katydid-wing subdivided by sun till the nettings are legion.
What is our innocence, What is our guilt All are naked, none is safe.
Excess is the common substitute for energy.
I wonder what Adam and Eve think of it by this time.
Among animals, one has a sense of humor. Humor saves a few steps, it saves years.
Omissions are not accidents.
We don't like flowers that do not wilt they must die, and nine she-camel hairs aid memory.
There is a great amount of poetry in unconscious fastidiousness.
A philosopher, being asked what was the first thing necessary to win the love of a woman, answered, 'Opportunity'.
I, too, dislike it. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it, after all, a place for the genuine.
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanxbeautiful under networks of foam, and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed.
Drer would have seen a reason for living in a town like this.
What sap went through that little thread to make the cherry red.
The power of the visible is the invisable.
Not till the poets among us can be 'literalists of the imagination'above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them.' shall we have it.
Nor was he insincere in saying, 'Make my house your inn.' Inns are not residences.
And the ocean, under the pulsation of light- houses and noise of bell buoys, advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.
O to be a dragon, a symbol of the power of Heavenof silk-worm size or immense at times invisible. Felicitous phenomenon.
Of the crow-blue mussel shells, one keeps adjusting the ash heaps opening and shutting itself like an injured fan.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories