Dawning Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
were-waiting-for-the-dawning-of-a-new-way
let-us-be-together-in-the-dawning-light
this-is-dawning-age-aquarius
yes-the-sun-when-it039s-dawning
like-the-sun-when-it039s-dawning
good-dawning-to-thee-friend-william-shakespeare
there-is-deep-peaceful-calm-in-dawning-new-day-alan-watts
of-course-course-drugs-music-new-age-dawning-you-came-for-old-book-robin-sloan
i-rode-into-dawning-world-television-in-1944-on-train
let-the-stars-of-the-twilight-thereof-be-dark-let-it-look-for-light-but-have-none-neither-let-it-see-the-dawning-of-the-day
no-man-can-reveal-to-you-nothing-but-that-which-already-lies-halfasleep-in-the-dawning-of-your-knowledge
i-prevented-the-dawning-of-the-morning-and-cried-i-hoped-in-thy-word
its-been-dawning-on-me-slowly-that-for-past-35-years-i-have-been-cast-against-type-im-finally-getting-to-do-what-i-really-wanted-to-do-leslie-nielsen
darkness-that-here-surrounds-our-purblind-understanding-will-vanish-at-dawning-eternal-day-robert-boyle
when-i-lie-down-i-say-when-shall-i-arise-and-the-night-be-gone-and-i-am-full-of-tossings-to-and-fro-unto-the-dawning-of-the-day
hear-how-birds-on-evry-blooming-spray-with-joyous-musick-wake-dawning-day-alexander-pope
then-came-the-woman-in-the-dawning-of-the-day-and-fell-down-at-the-door-of-the-mans-house-where-her-lord-was-till-it-was-light
mother-hushed-sacred-silence-fills-dawning-sky-i-ponder-in-this-moment-our-journey-which-is-nigh-muse
i-keep-subject-my-inquiry-constantly-before-me-wait-till-first-dawning-opens-gradually-by-little-little-into-full-clear-light-isaac-newton
i-dont-have-story-about-epiphany-in-which-i-suddenly-realised-i-wanted-to-be-actor-it-was-much-more-case-idea-dawning-on-me-gradually
the-most-general-deficiency-in-our-sort-culture-education-is-gradually-dawning-on-me-no-one-learns-no-one-strives-towards-no-one-teachesenduring-friedrich-nietzsche
the-spirit-is-testifying-that-new-day-is-dawning-the-stage-world-is-being-set-for-fullness-harvest-genuine-apostolic-reformation-in-new-way-mark-chironna
this-is-my-password-said-king-as-he-drew-his-sword-the-light-is-dawning-lie-broken-now-guard-thee-miscreant-for-i-am-tirian-narnia-c-s-lewis
drummer-beat-piper-blowharper-strike-soldier-gofree-flame-sear-grassestil-dawning-red-star-passes-anne-mccaffrey
aid-dawning-tongue-pen-aid-it-hopes-honest-men-charles-mackay
i-think-its-dawning-on-some-democrats-that-obstructing-patriot-act-like-theyve-been-obstructing-everything-else-is-bad-for-them-politically
this-moment-dawning-is-called-taqwa-godconsciousness-ihsan-awareness-suddenly-you-know-that-god-can-see-you-knows-you-even-if-you-do-not-know-ruqaiyyah-waris-maqsood
grace-comes-into-soul-as-morning-sun-into-world-first-dawning-then-light-at-last-sun-in-his-full-excellent-brightness-thomas-adams
be-reverent-before-dawning-day-do-not-think-what-will-be-in-year-in-ten-years-think-today-romain-rolland
the-wanderer-what-is-she-like-i-was-told-she-is-melancholy-soul-she-is-like-sun-to-night-momentary-gold-a-star-when-dimmed-by-dawning-light-flicker-candle-blown-a-lonely-kite-los
dusty-day-dawning-three-hours-late-open-the-curtains-and-let-the-rest-wait-my-mind-goes-running-three-thousand-miles-east-i-may-miss-the-harvest-but-i-fogelberg-dan
so-here-hath-been-dawning-another-blue-day-think-wilt-thou-let-it-slip-useless-away-out-eternity-this-new-day-is-born-into-eternity-at-night-will-thomas-carlyle
shallow-man-shallow-man-speaks-to-shadows-moves-his-trembling-hands-and-hes-always-little-late-for-dawning-day-david-bowie
reality-was-dawning-on-him-he-hated-reality-if-you-were-him-would-you-carla-h-krueger
it-was-dawning-on-me-how-uphill-poets-path-was-i-confessed-to-her-that-if-i-had-to-be-choice-between-being-happy-being-poet-id-choose-to-be-happy-mary-karr
grace-is-seed-glory-dawning-glory-in-heart-therefore-grace-is-earnest-future-inheritance-jonathan-edwards
there-may-be-quetions-in-your-head-as-new-day-i-dawning-women-ill-see-you-in-morning-women-ill-see-you-in-morning-keaton-henson
see-stretching-sun-at-dawning-wipe-stardust-from-his-eyes-feel-morning-breezes-yawning-telling-me-its-time-to-rise-telling-me-its-time-to-rise-joni-mitchell
there-may-be-quetions-in-your-head-as-new-day-i-dawning-women-ill-see-you-in-morning-women-ill-see-you-in-morning-oh-women-ill-see-you-in-keaton-henson
The Last Hero The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day, There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away, And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide, Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride. The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars, With rains that might put out the sun and clean the sky of stars, Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above, The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love. Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain, You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain. The chance of battle changes - so may all battle be; I stole my lady bride from them, they stole her back from me. I rent her from her red-roofed hall, I rode and saw arise, More lovely than the living flowers the hatred in her eyes. She never loved me, never bent, never was less divine; The sunset never loved me, the wind was never mine. Was it all nothing that she stood imperial in duresse? Silence itself made softer with the sweeping of her dress. O you who drain the cup of life, O you who wear the crown, You never loved a woman's smile as I have loved her frown. The wind blew out from Bergen to the dawning of the day, They ride and run with fifty spears to break and bar my way, I shall not die alone, alone, but kin to all the powers, As merry as the ancient sun and fighting like the flowers. How white their steel, how bright their eyes! I love each laughing knave, Cry high and bid him welcome to the banquet of the brave. Yea, I will bless them as they bend and love them where they lie, When on their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky. The hour when death is like a light and blood is like a rose, - You never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes. Know you what earth shall lose to-night, what rich uncounted loans, What heavy gold of tales untold you bury with my bones? My loves in deep dim meadows, my ships that rode at ease, Ruffling the purple plumage of strange and secret seas. To see this fair earth as it is to me alone was given, The blow that breaks my brow to-night shall break the dome of heaven. The skies I saw, the trees I saw after no eyes shall see, To-night I die the death of God; the stars shall die with me; One sound shall sunder all the spears and break the trumpet's breath: You never laughed in all your life as I shall laugh in death.

G.K. Chesterton
the-last-hero-the-wind-blew-out-from-bergen-from-dawning-to-day-there-was-wreck-trees-fall-towers-score-miles-away-and-drifted-like-livid-leaf-i-go-before-its-tide-spewed-out-hou
aisling-tumbled-out-his-gold-eyes-going-wild-about-room-to-take-in-all-them-his-beak-clicked-as-he-worked-it-in-silence-then-as-breaking-ice-may-bring-cascade-water-from-winters-
The unity of government which constitutes you one people is also now dear to you. It is justly so, for it is a main pillar in the edifice of your real independence, the support of your tranquility at home, your peace abroad; of your safety; of your prosperity; of that very liberty which you so highly prize. But as it is easy to foresee that, from different causes and from different quarters, much pains will be taken, many artifices employed to weaken in your minds the conviction of this truth; as this is the point in your political fortress against which the batteries of internal and external enemies will be most constantly and actively (though often covertly and insidiously) directed, it is of infinite moment that you should properly estimate the immense value of your national union to your collective and individual happiness; that you should cherish a cordial, habitual, and immovable attachment to it; accustoming yourselves to think and speak of it as of the palladium of your political safety and prosperity; watching for its preservation with jealous anxiety; discountenancing whatever may suggest even a suspicion that it can in any event be abandoned; and indignantly frowning upon the first dawning of every attempt to alienate any portion of our country from the rest, or to enfeeble the sacred ties which now link together the various parts. For this you have every inducement of sympathy and interest. Citizens, by birth or choice, of a common country, that country has a right to concentrate your affections. The name of American, which belongs to you in your national capacity, must always exalt the just pride of patriotism more than any appellation derived from local discriminations. With slight shades of difference, you have the same religion, manners, habits, and political principles. You have in a common cause fought and triumphed together; the independence and liberty you possess are the work of joint counsels, and joint efforts of common dangers, sufferings, and successes. But these considerations, however powerfully they address themselves to your sensibility, are greatly outweighed by those which apply more immediately to your interest. Here every portion of our country finds the most commanding motives for carefully guarding and preserving the union of the whole.

George Washington
the-unity-government-which-constitutes-you-one-people-is-also-now-dear-to-you-it-is-justly-for-it-is-main-pillar-in-edifice-your-real-independence-support-your-tranquility-at-hom
Asking a writer why they like to write {in the theoretical sense of the question} is like asking a person why they breathe. For me, writing is a natural reflex to the beauty, the events, and the people I see around me. As Anais Nin put it, "We write to taste life twice." I live and then I write. The one transfers to the other, for me, in a gentle, necessary way. As prosaic as it sounds, I believe I process by writing. Part of the way I deal with stressful situations, catty people, or great joy or great trials in my own life is by conjuring it onto paper in some way; a journal entry, a blog post, my writing notebook, or my latest story. While I am a fair conversationalist, my real forte is expressing myself in words on paper. If I leave it all chasing round my head like rabbits in a warren, I'm apt to become a bug-bear to live with and my family would not thank me. Some people need counselors. Some people need long, drawn-out phone-calls with a trusted friend. Some people need to go out for a run. I need to get away to a quiet, lonesome corner-preferably on the front steps at gloaming with the North Star trembling against the darkening blue. I need to set my pen fiercely against the page {for at such moments I must be writing-not typing.} and I need to convert the stress or excitement or happiness into something to be shared with another person. The beauty of the relationship between reading and writing is its give-and-take dynamic. For years I gathered and read every book in the near vicinity and absorbed tale upon tale, story upon story, adventures and sagas and dramas and classics. I fed my fancy, my tastes, and my ideas upon good books and thus those aspects of myself grew up to be none too shabby. When I began to employ my fancy, tastes, and ideas in writing my own books, the dawning of a strange and wonderful idea tinged the horizon of thought with blush-rose colors: If I persisted and worked hard and poured myself into the craft, I could create one of those books. One of the heart-books that foster a love of reading and even writing in another person somewhere. I could have a hand in forming another person's mind. A great responsibility and a great privilege that, and one I would love to be a party to. Books can change a person. I am a firm believer in that. I cannot tell you how many sentiments or noble ideas or parts of my own personality are woven from threads of things I've read over the years. I hoard quotations and shadows of quotations and general impressions of books like a tzar of Russia hoards his icy treasures. They make up a large part of who I am. I think it's worth saying again: books can change a person. For better or for worse. As a writer it's my two-edged gift to be able to slay or heal where I will. It's my responsibility to wield that weapon aright and do only good with my words. Or only purposeful cutting. I am not set against the surgeon's method of butchery-the nicking of a person's spirit, the rubbing in of a salty, stinging salve, and the ultimate healing-over of that wound that makes for a healthier person in the end. It's the bitter herbs that heal the best, so now and again you might be called upon to write something with more cayenne than honey about it. But the end must be good. We cannot let the Light fade from our words.

Rachel Heffington
asking-writer-why-they-like-to-write-in-theoretical-sense-question-is-like-asking-person-why-they-breathe-for-me-writing-is-natural-reflex-to-beauty-events-people-i-see-around-me
[Robert's eulogy at his brother, Ebon C. Ingersoll's grave. Even the great orator Robert Ingersoll was choked up with tears at the memory of his beloved brother] The record of a generous life runs like a vine around the memory of our dead, and every sweet, unselfish act is now a perfumed flower. Dear Friends: I am going to do that which the dead oft promised he would do for me. The loved and loving brother, husband, father, friend, died where manhood's morning almost touches noon, and while the shadows still were falling toward the west. He had not passed on life's highway the stone that marks the highest point; but, being weary for a moment, he lay down by the wayside, and, using his burden for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep that kisses down his eyelids still. While yet in love with life and raptured with the world, he passed to silence and pathetic dust. Yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest, sunniest hour of all the voyage, while eager winds are kissing every sail, to dash against the unseen rock, and in an instant hear the billows roar above a sunken ship. For whether in mid sea or 'mong the breakers of the farther shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all. And every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love and every moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death. This brave and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock; but in the sunshine he was vine and flower. He was the friend of all heroic souls. He climbed the heights, and left all superstitions far below, while on his forehead fell the golden dawning, of the grander day. He loved the beautiful, and was with color, form, and music touched to tears. He sided with the weak, the poor, and wronged, and lovingly gave alms. With loyal heart and with the purest hands he faithfully discharged all public trusts. He was a worshipper of liberty, a friend of the oppressed. A thousand times I have heard him quote these words: 'For Justice all place a temple, and all season, summer!' He believed that happiness was the only good, reason the only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only religion, and love the only priest. He added to the sum of human joy; and were every one to whom he did some loving service to bring a blossom to his grave, he would sleep to-night beneath a wilderness of flowers. Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the night of death hope sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing. He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the approach of death for the return of health, whispered with his latest breath, 'I am better now.' Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless dead. And now, to you, who have been chosen, from among the many men he loved, to do the last sad office for the dead, we give his sacred dust. Speech cannot contain our love. There was, there is, no gentler, stronger, manlier man.

Robert G. Ingersoll
roberts-eulogy-at-his-brother-ebon-c-ingersolls-grave-even-great-orator-robert-ingersoll-was-choked-up-with-tears-at-memory-his-beloved-brother-the-record-generous-life-runs-like
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