John Milton Quotes
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale gessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
John Milton
Quotes to Explore
This place is phenomenal. The fans are right on top of the players. You feed off that adrenaline. I really think this environment is a vital part of what's happening here.
Dick Vitale
Truly the universe is full of ghosts, not sheeted churchyard spectres, but the inextinguishable elements of individual life, which having once been, can never die, though they blend and change, and change again for ever.
H. Rider Haggard
I find that most of wake up day, not because we genuinely 'want' to, but because we have to. We have to be somewhere, do something, answer to or take care of someone. But when you shift your intention and create a genuine desire - event enthusiasm - for waking up in the morning, your entire life changes.
Hal Elrod
But I remember now
I am in this earthly world, where to do harm
Is often laudable, to do good sometime
Accounted dangerous folly.
William Shakespeare
You know you're getting fat when you step on the dog's tail and he dies.
Elayne Boosler
If you worshipped Muhammad, know that Muhammad is dead. But if you worshipped Allah, know that Allah never dies.
Yasmin Mogahed
We who were once living can guard you still, and love you, and keep you living safe and whole. Nothing ever truly dies.
Catherynne M. Valente
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale gessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
John Milton