Shrouded 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
i-cannot-find-my-way-there-is-no-starin-all-shrouded-heavens-anywhere-edwin-arlington-robinson
those-who-have-no-hope-pass-their-old-age-shrouded-with-inward-gloom-wilfred-owen
he-has-blocked-my-way-i-cannot-pass-he-has-shrouded-my-paths-in-darkness-job-198
life-within-kremlin-was-shrouded-in-impenetrable-secrecy
beauty-is-necessarily-shrouded-in-mysterywhich-is-part-its-splendour-thomas-dubay
why-divulge-secret-when-you-can-remain-the-wizard-shrouded-behind-curtain-ken-poirot
all-things-fade-into-storied-past-in-little-while-are-shrouded-in-oblivion-marcus-aurelius
its-not-right-to-think-about-all-jewish-german-history-as-shrouded-by-smoke-crematorium
there-is-darkened-corridor-forgotten-by-sun-shrouded-in-shadow-transgression-michael-hibbard
im-tired-being-this-solemn-poet-masses-enigma-shrouded-in-mystery-michael-stipe
deliberately-she-shrouded-light-in-her-eyes-but-it-shone-against-her-will-in-faintly-perceptible-smile-leo-tolstoy
ply-original-path-that-life-has-laid-out-for-you-dont-let-it-get-shrouded-with-weeds-constance-chuks-friday
the-problem-is-with-men-i-know-i-shouldnt-say-this-but-theyve-shrouded-and-hidden-women-to-hide-their-incompetence
it-is-things-we-cant-afford-to-lose-that-make-us-fight-until-we-win-shrouded-in-pompei-lisa-fantino
writing-should-be-adventure-shrouded-in-mystery-uncertainty-blessed-with-amazing-grace-in-theory-course-syd-field
there-is-much-in-christianity-which-can-be-subjected-to-exact-analysis-but-ultimate-things-are-shrouded-in-silent-mysteries-god-hans-urs-von-balthasar
the-things-that-converge-in-writing-play-come-from-complex-motives-genesis-shrouded-in-certain-kind-mystery
i-went-for-audition-which-was-shrouded-in-all-kinds-secrecy-to-keep-storyline-under-wraps-5-days-later-i-was-in-atlanta-700-years-older-lauren-cohan
i-lead-most-dyspeptic-solitary-selfshrouded-life-consuming-if-possible-in-silence-my-considerable-daily-allotment-pain-thomas-carlyle
the-secrecy-that-shrouded-vote-counting-by-special-election-committee-cast-doubts-on-results-lacks-transparency-hosni-mubarak
the-greatest-happiness-is-to-scatter-your-enemy-to-drive-him-before-you-to-see-his-cities-reduced-to-ashes-to-see-those-who-love-him-shrouded-in-tears-to-gather-into-your-bosom-h
the-stars-sparkled-above-mist-shrouded-tents-caravans-carnival-the-night-crackled-with-odd-vibration-as-if-veil-peculiarity-settled-over-company-af-stewart
the-light-died-in-low-clouds-falling-snow-drank-in-dusk-shrouded-in-silence-branches-wrapped-me-in-their-peace-when-boundaries-were-erased-once-again-wonder-that-i-exist-dag-hamm
joy-is-based-on-spiritual-knowledge-that-while-world-in-which-we-live-is-shrouded-in-darkness-god-has-overcome-world-henri-jm-nouwen
suicide-is-confession-failure-and-like-divorce-it-is-shrouded-in-excuses-rationalizations-spun-endlessly-to-disguise-simple-fact-that-all-ones-energy-passion-appetite-ambition-ha
awakening-is-not-journey-discovering-distant-land-coveted-secret-but-rather-it-is-journey-surrendering-to-what-has-always-been-present-but-shrouded-in-illusion-disillusion-shavas
it-comes-without-meaning-it-departs-in-darkness-in-darkness-its-name-is-shrouded-ecclesiastes-64
20-years-ago-when-bob-bly-starting-teaching-copywriting-field-was-deeply-shrouded-in-mystery-now-thanks-to-bob-learning-copywriting-though-still-ken-mccarthy
shrouded-as-he-was-for-decade-in-apparent-cloak-anonymity-obscurity-osama-bin-laden-was-by-no-means-invisible-man-he-was-ubiquitous-palpable-both-in-physical-cyberspectral-form-t
Jess Pepper's review of the Avalon Strings: 'In a land so very civilized and modern as ours, it is unpopular to suggest that the mystical isle of Avalon ever truly existed. But I believe I have found proof of it right here in Manhattan. To understand my reasoning, you must recall first that enchanting tale of a mist-enshrouded isle where medieval women-descended from the gods-spawned heroic men. Most notable among these was the young King Arthur. In their most secret confessions, these mystic heroes acknowledged Avalon, and particularly the music of its maidens, as the source of their power. Many a school boy has wept reading of Young King Arthur standing silent on the shore as the magical isle disappears from view, shrouded in mist. The boy longs as Arthur did to leap the bank and pilot his canoe to the distant, singing atoll. To rejoin nymphs who guard in the depths of their water caves the meaning of life. To feel again the power that burns within. But knowledge fades and memory dims, and schoolboys grow up. As the legend goes, the way became unknown to mortal man. Only woman could navigate the treacherous blanket of white that dipped and swirled at the surface of the water. And with its fading went also the music of the fabled isle. Harps and strings that heralded the dawn and incited robed maidens to dance evaporated into the mists of time, and silence ruled. But I tell you, Kind Reader, that the music of Avalon lives. The spirit that enchanted knights in chain mail long eons ago is reborn in our fair city, in our own small band of fair maids who tap that legendary spirit to make music as the Avalon Strings. Theirs is no common gift. Theirs is no ordinary sound. It is driven by a fire from within, borne on fingers bloodied by repetition. Minds tormented by a thirst for perfection. And most startling of all is the voice that rises above, the stunning virtuoso whose example leads her small company to higher planes. Could any other collection of musicians achieve the heights of this illustrious few? I think not. I believe, Friends of the City, that when we witnes their performance, as we may almost nightly at the Warwick Hotel, we witness history's gift to this moment in time. And for a few brief moments in the presence of these maids, we witness the fiery spirit that endured and escaped the obliterating mists of Avalon.

Bailey Bristol
jess-peppers-review-avalon-strings-in-land-civilized-modern-as-ours-it-is-unpopular-to-suggest-that-mystical-isle-avalon-ever-truly-existed-but-i-believe-i-have-found-proof-it-ri
Antonia Valleau cast the first shovelful of dirt onto her husband's fur-shrouded body, lying in the grave she'd dug in their garden plot, the only place where the soil wasn't still rock hard. I won't be breakin' down. For the sake of my children, I must be strong. Pain squeezed her chest like a steel trap. She had to force herself to take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of loam and pine. I must be doing this. She drove the shovel into the soil heaped next to the grave, hefted the laden blade, and dumped the earth over Jean-Claude, trying to block out the thumping sound the soil made as it covered him. Even as Antonia scooped and tossed, her muscles aching from the effort, her heart stayed numb, and her mind kept playing out the last sight of her husband. The memory haunting her, she paused to catch her breath and wipe the sweat off her brow, her face hot from exertion in spite of the cool spring air. Antonia touched the tips of her dirty fingers to her lips. She could still feel the pressure of Jean-Claude's mouth on hers as he'd kissed her before striding out the door for a day of hunting. She'd held up baby Jacques, and Jean-Claude had tapped his son's nose. Jacques had let out a belly laugh that made his father respond in kind. Her heart had filled with so much love and pride in her family that she'd chuckled, too. Stepping outside, she'd watched Jean-Claude ruffle the dark hair of their six-year-old, Henri. Then he strode off, whistling, with his rifle carried over his shoulder. She'd thought it would be a good day-a normal day. She assumed her husband would return to their mountain home in the afternoon before dusk as he always did, unless he had a longer hunt planned. As Antonia filled the grave, she denied she was burying her husband. Jean-Claude be gone a checkin' the trap line, she told herself, flipping the dirt onto his shroud. She moved through the nightmare with leaden limbs, a knotted stomach, burning dry eyes, and a throat that felt as though a log had lodged there. While Antonia shoveled, she kept glancing at her little house, where, inside, Henri watched over the sleeping baby. From the garden, she couldn't see the doorway. She worried about her son-what the glimpse of his father's bloody body had done to the boy. Mon Dieu, she couldn't stop to comfort him. Not yet. Henri had promised to stay inside with the baby, but she didn't know how long she had before Jacques woke up. Once she finished burying Jean-Claude, Antonia would have to put her sons on a mule and trek to where she'd found her husband's body clutched in the great arms of the dead grizzly. She wasn't about to let his last kill lie there for the animals and the elements to claim. Her family needed that meat and the fur. She heard a sleepy wail that meant Jacques had awakened. Just a few more shovelfuls. Antonia forced herself to hurry, despite how her arms, shoulders, and back screamed in pain. When she finished the last shovelful of earth, exhausted, Antonia sank to her knees, facing the cabin, her back to the grave, placing herself between her sons and where their father lay. She should go to them, but she was too depleted to move.

Debra Holland
antonia-valleau-cast-first-shovelful-dirt-onto-her-husbands-furshrouded-body-lying-in-grave-shed-dug-in-their-garden-plot-only-place-where-soil-wasnt-still-rock-hard-i-wont-be-br
?Earn cash when you save a quote by clicking
EARNED Load...
LEVEL : Load...