"What if? Why not? Challenge the Convention! Let's do some incredible things!" More Quotes
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17-Sep-16
Bammera Vari Pothana
28-Jun-17
Won't you come and see loneliness? Just one leaf from the kiri tree.
24-Jul-17
Riches I hold in light esteem And Love I laugh to scorn And lust of Fame was but a dream That vanished with the morn? And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is - "Leave the heart that now I bear And give me liberty." Yes, as my swift days near their goal 'Tis all that I implore Through life and death, a chainless soul With courage to endure!
4-Jun-18
Dylan
16-Jun-17
To fight aloud, is very brave - But gallanter, I know Who charge within the bosom The Calvalry of Woe - Who win, and nations do not see - Who fall - and none observe - Whose dying eyes, no Country Regards with patriot love - We trust, in plumed procession For such, the Angels go - Rank after Rank, with even feet - And Uniforms of snow.
15-Jul-17
All out of doors looked darkly in at him Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars, That gathers on the pane in empty rooms. What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand. What kept him from remembering what it was That brought him to that creaking room was age. He stood with barrels round him - at a loss. And having scared the cellar under him In clomping there, he scared it once again In clomping off; - and scared the outer night, Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar Of trees and crack of branches, common things, But nothing so like beating on a box. A light he was to no one but himself Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what, A quiet light, and then not even that. He consigned to the moon,- such as she was, So late-arising,- to the broken moon As better than the sun in any case For such a charge, his snow upon the roof, His icicles along the wall to keep; And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted, And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept. One aged man - one man - can't fill a house, A farm, a countryside, or if he can, It's thus he does it of a winter night.
I broke the lines for better readability only.
Read it and loved it. I wasn't a parent then. Worked out for my Dad pretty well. Jury is slipping from my fingers rapidly :)
Here is Gibran on children at his bohemian best:
Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
27-Jun-17
Dew evaporates and all our world is dew . . . So dear, So fresh, so fleeting
8-Feb-18
Kant
15-Jan-18
Kenneth Rexroth
20-Jan-20
Manyoshu
READ lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone, She is at rest. Peace, peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it.
Pasternak
18-Jan-18
Sappho
After killing a spider, how lonely I feel in the cold of night!
2-Mar-18
Some Telugu Poets
3-Jul-17
Bless this little heart, this white soul that has won the kiss of heaven for our earth.
He loves the light of the sun, he loves the sight of his mother's face.
He has not learned to despise the dust, and to hanker after gold.
Clasp him to your heart and bless him.
He has come into this land of an hundred cross-roads.
I know not how he chose you from the crowd, came to your door, and grasped you hand to ask his way.
He will follow you, laughing the talking, and not a doubt in his heart.
Keep his trust, lead him straight and bless him.
Lay your hand on his head, and pray that though the waves underneath grow threatening, yet the breath from above may come and fill his sails and waft him to the heaven of peace.
Forget him not in your hurry, let him come to your heart and bless him.
28-Jul-20
Victor Hugo
28-May-17
Virginia Woolf
20-Jun-17
What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night. No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this is if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.
Broad sun-stoned beaches. White heat. A green river. A bridge, scorched yellow palms from the summer-sleeping house drowsing through August. Days I have held, days I have lost, days that outgrow, like daughters, my harboring arms.
21-Nov-17
From Hamlet
To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And by opposing end them. To die - to sleep, No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub: For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause - there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th'unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action.
It was a confusion of ideas between him and one of the lions he was hunting in Kenya that had caused A. B. Spottsworth to make the obituary column. He thought the lion was dead, and the lion thought it wasn't.
14-Jan-18
Yosano Akiko
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