SaturdayOct 04, 2025
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes or it prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Deserts dusty Face, Lighting a little hour or two is gone.
After a momentary silence spake Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make; 'They sneer at me for leaning all awry: What! did the Hand of the Potter shake?'
Striking from the Calendar Unborn Tomorrow and dead Yesterday.
The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.
Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youths sweet-scented manuscript should close!
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness Oh, Wilderness were Paradise now!
A moment's halt a momentary taste Of being from the well amid the waste And lo the phantom caravan has reached The nothing it set out from - oh, make haste!
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die, Lift not your hands to It for help for It As impotently rolls as you or I.
The moving finger writes; and having writ Moves on: not all your piety nor wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.
One thing at least is certain This life flies; One thing is certain and the rest is lies; The Flower that once has blown forever dies.
Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire To grasp this Sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits and then Remold it nearer to the Hearts Desire!
I come like Water, and like Wind I go.
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
The King in a carriage may ride, And the beggar may crawl at his side; But in the general race, They are traveling all the same pace.
Tis all a Checkerboard of Nights and Days Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates, and stays, And one by one back in the Closet lays.
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?
I sometimes think that never blows so red The rose as where some buried Caesar bled.
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