Sweet Quotes - Page 67

The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.

The golden line is drawn between winter and summer. Behind all is blackness and darkness and dissolution. Before is hope, and soft airs, and the flowers, and the sweet season of hay; and people will cross the fields, reading or walking with one another; and instead of the rain that soaks death into the heart of green things, will be the rain which they drink with delight; and there will be sleep on the grass at midday, and early rising in the morning, and long moonlight evenings.

His smile brought back the best times, sweet memories of nights together... stirring up those old feelings that got me thinkin' bout forever.

I like vodka tonics and gin & tonics. I also like gimlets. I like things that have sweetness with a bit of a kick.

Sweet pliability of man's spirit, that can at once surrender itself to illusions, which cheat expectation and sorrow of their weary moments! - long - long since had ye numbered out my days, had I not trod so great a part of them upon this enchanted ground. When my way is too rough for my feet, or too steep for my strength, I get off it, to some smooth velvet path which fancy has scattered over with rose-buds of delights; and have taken a few turns on it, come back strengthened and refreshed.

My family is from the South, and I can remember all those ladies I grew up with, like my great-aunts, who had handkerchiefs. There's something sweet about them.

Though you may hear me holler, And you may see me cry-- I'll be dogged, sweet baby, If you gonna see me die.

How sweet Japanese woman is! All the possibilities of the race for goodness seem to be concentrated in her.

There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home.

I'm really into Sweet 75 right now, and I dig playing Nirvana, don't get me wrong. Even if Kurt never died, more than likely I'd be in Sweet 75 today still.

Helen Tse tells a gripping tale of struggle, laughter, love and food that marks Sweet Mandarin as a must read book. It is not only an immigrant account of life but also a universal touching story of survival that will move your soul as well.

I had never been to Texas. Id been through Texas, but Im so glad to be back in a place thats not L.A. or New York. To talk about Dallas, to talk about there being sweet tea on the catering table, its rich and saturated in American-ness.

Sweets, you couldn't ignore me if you tried.

Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man.

Treacherous assassins, enemies of the people, and worthy of everyone's ridicule are those who, under the pretext of guiding future generations, teach them an isolated system of doctrines and whisper in their ear (instead of the sweet message of love) the barbarous gospel of hate.

The soul of a true christian, as I then wrote my meditations, appeared like such a little white flower as we see in the spring of the year; low and humble on the ground, opening its bosom to receive the pleasant beams of the sun’s glory; rejoicing, as it were, in a calm rapture; diffusing around a sweet fragrancy; standing peacefully and lovingly, in the midst of other flowers round about; all in like manner opening their bosoms to drink in the light of the sun.

Farewell has a sweet sound of reluctance. Good-by is short and final, a word with teeth sharp to bite through the string that ties past to the future.

When the sappy boughs Attire themselves with blooms, sweet rudiments Of future harvest.

We must by every means humble our hearts and subdue our proud intellect, lest we should be like the contemporaries of the prophets, who looked on them only as sweet-voiced singers, and nothing more; they did not wish to fulfill their commands, they even despised, persecuted, beat and killed them; lest we should be like those, by whom 'no prophet is accepted in his own country' (Lk. 4:24).

A short retirement urges a sweet return.

I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.

But his kiss was so sweet, and so closely he pressed, that I languished and pined till I granted the rest.

Sweet moonlight, shining full and clear, Why do you light my torture here? How often have you seen me toil, Burning last drops of midnight oil. On books and papers as I read, My friend, your mournful light you shed. If only I could flee this den And walk the mountain-tops again, Through moonlit meadows make my way, In mountain caves with spirits play - Released from learning's musty cell, Your healing dew would make me well!

I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel, my morning incense, and my evening meal, the sweets of hasty pudding.