John Keats Quotes
But when the melancholy fit shall fallSudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,And hides the green hill in an April shroud;Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.
John Keats
Quotes to Explore
I'll never forget one morning I walked in and I had a hell of a bruise - it had been a difficult night the night before - and a client said to me, 'Good God, Vidal, what happened to your face?' And I said, 'Oh, nothing, madam, I just fell over a hairpin.'
Vidal Sassoon
We dried continuously day and night. We had no efficient way to do it, so we built this new popcorn plant.
Orville Redenbacher
Mark Zuckerberg needs no introduction these days, what with all the magazine covers and morning news shows. My mother knows who he is now, and my mother can hardly turn on a computer.
Kara Swisher
The morning is always my best time of the day for writing because that's when my head is best.
Zoe Foster Blake
My brain is so anxiety-prone, like a pinball machine. If I don't get up in the morning and focus my thinking, my breathing, and my being for about 12 minutes, I'm just a screwball all day long.
Rainn Wilson
If you enjoy the fragrance of a rose, you must accept the thorns which it bears.
Isaac Hayes
The Duke, always right in his purpose but generally wrong in his practice, had stayed at home working all the morning, thereby scandalising the strict, and had gone to church alone in the afternoon, thereby offending the social.
Anthony Trollope
Thanking you once more, I want to wish you the best of luck for your future life and to conclude by saying to you: Dream your dreams and may they come true!
Felix Bloch
Possessing these books has become all important to me, because I have become jealous of the past.
Alberto Manguel
A marriage doesn't have to be perfect, but you can be perfect for each other.
Jessica Simpson
But when the melancholy fit shall fallSudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,And hides the green hill in an April shroud;Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.
John Keats