Sweet Quotes - Page 38

There's that horrible-beautiful moment, that bitter-sweet impasse where you know that somebody is bullshitting you but they're doing it with such panache and conviction...no, it's because they say exactly what you want to hear, at that point in time.

And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow; Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go. They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high; And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die.

Sweet souls around us watch us still, press nearer to our side; Into our thoughts, into our prayers, with gentle helpings glide.

Man doeth this and doeth that from the good or evil of his heart; but he knows not to what end his sense doth prompt him; for when he strikes he is blind to where the blow shall fall, nor can he count the airy threads that weave the web of circumstance. Good and evil, love and hate, night and day, sweet and bitter, man and woman, heaven above and the earth beneath--all those things are needful, one to the other, and who knows the end of each?

Writing is a sweet, wonderful reward.

Boxing has always been work to me, a job. If I could say anything to a youngster taking up boxing it would be to "be smart and not take a lot of punches". It's called the sweet science for a reason. Hit and not be hit, make a lot of money without taking a lot of punishment. That's what it's about.

Jessica Lange is a sweetheart, the nicest lady in the world. She has a Poodle named Jack.

I'm not bitter, I'm bittersweet.

The secret of salvation is this: keep sweet, be useful, and keep busy.

In those sticky summer nights in South London our windows stay open and our tiny apartment becomes our secret garden. The magic of the secret garden is that it exists in our imagination. There are no limits, no borderlines. The secret garden leads to the marigolds of Mogadishu and the magnolias of Kingston and when the heat turns us sticky and sweet and unwilling to be claimed by defeat we own the night. We own our bodies. We own our lives.

Sudden Light I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the light around the shore.

People always ask me about my makeout scenes with him [Tyler Posey]. We joke around a lot and are like, ‘Oh, that was a sloppy one!’ But seriously, I don’t have to make an effort to have chemistry with him. He’s such a sweet guy and really loyal.

Gone were but the Winter, Come were but the Spring, I would go to a covert Where the birds sing; Where in the whitethorn Singeth a thrush, And a robin sings In the holly-bush. Full of fresh scents Are the budding boughs Arching high over A cool green house: Full of sweet scents, And whispering air Which sayeth softly: We spread no snare; Here dwell in safety, Here dwell alone, With a clear stream And a mossy stone. Here the sun shineth Most shadily; Here is heard an echo Of the far sea, Though far off it be.

With this sweet hope of ultimate acceptance with God, I have always enjoyed much cheerfulness before men; but I have at the same time laboured incessantly to cultivate the deepest humiliation before God.

This world is a bitter tree, it has only two sweet nectar like fruits - one is soft voice and the other is company of gentlemen.

I have a constant sweet tooth, so I like anything from the bakery, like cupcakes, cookies.

I love to see when ya move with the rhythm; I love to see when you're dancin' from within; It gives great joy to feel such sweet togetherness, everyone doin' and they're doing their best!

Our freedom is sweet. It will be sweeter when we are all free.

When fans come up to me and Vanessa, they're really sweet and ask for autographs - but once they see the guys, the girls tend to scream.

His touch both consoles and devastates me; I feel my heart pulse, then wither, naked as a stone on the roaring mattress while the lovely, moony night slides through the window to dapple the flanks of this innocent who makes cages to keep the sweet birds in. Eat me, drink me; thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden, I go back and back to him to have his fingers strip the tattered skin away and clothe me in his dress of water, this garment that drenches me, its slithering odour, its capacity for drowning.

Sometimes the way through someone's tough outer shell is to do something obvious, thoughtful and sweet.

The bitter and the sweet come from the outside, the hard from within, from one's own efforts.

If religion is the opiate of the people, tradition is an even more sinister analgesic, simply because it rarely appears sinister. If religion is a tight band, a throbbing vein, and a needle, tradition is a far homelier concoction: poppy seeds ground into tea; a sweet cocoa drink laced with cocaine; the kind of thing your grandmother might have made.

Sweets to the sweet.

I wonder what my father saw in his most secret sight of the right life. It's my guess he wanted to live out his life surrounded by friends and children and fertile fields of his own designing. I tihnk he wanted to die believing he had been in one the creation of a good sweet place. Those old pilgrims believed stories in which the West was a promise, a far away place where decent people could escape the wreckage of the old world and start over. Come to me, the dream whispers, and you can have one more chance.