Man with his burning soul has but an hour of breath to build a ship of truth in which his soul may sail—sail on the sea of death, for death takes toll of beauty, courage, youth, of all but truth.
While we least think it he prepares his mate. Mate, and the kings pawn played, it never ceases, though all the earth is dust of taken pieces.
To get the whole world out of bed
And washed, and dressed, and warmed, and fed,
To work, and back to bed again,
Believe me, Saul, costs worlds of pain.
There are few earthly things more beautiful than a university a place where those who hate ignorance may strive to know, where those who perceive truth may strive to make others see.
I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky; and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.
Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French.
Commonplace people dislike tragedy because they dare not suffer and cannot exult.
Heaven to me’s a fair blue stretch of sky, earth’s jest a dusty road.
Once in a century a man may be ruined or made insufferable by praise. But surely once in a minute something generous dies for want of it.
States are not made, nor patched; they grow: Grow slow through centuries of pain.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
Best trust the happy moments. What they gave makes man less fearful of the certain grave and gives his work compassion and new eyes, the days that make us happy make us wise.
Topics: Happiness, Wisdom
So shall I fight, so shall I tread,
In this long war beneath the stars;
So shall a glory wreathe my head,
So shall I faint and show the scars,
Until this case, this clogging mould,
Be smithied all to kingly gold.
Lord, give to men who are old and rougher the things that little children suffer, and let keep bright and undefiled the young years of the little child.
What am I, Life? A thing of watery salt held in cohesion by unresting cells. Which work they know not why, which never halt, myself unwitting where their Master dwells?
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