Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes.
Her fine high forehead sloped gently up to where her hair, bordering it like an armorial shield, burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold. Her eyes were bright, big, clear, wet and shining, the colour of her cheeks was real, breaking close to the surface from the strong young pump of her heart. Her body hovered delicately on the last edge of childhood -- she was almost eighteen, nearly complete, but the dew was still on her.
I thought my fire was out, and stirred the ashes…. I burnt my fingers.
I need dating advice. Fast.” Ash arched a single brow at that. “I’m useless. I’ve never been on one.” The three human men turned to gape at him. “What?” Ash asked them defensively. Nick started laughing. “Oh man, this is priceless. Don’t tell me the great Acheron is a virgin?” Ash gave him a droll look. “Yeah, Nick. I’m lily-white.
I wasn't a very good waitress, always spilling things on people and forgetting things. I once spilled ashes all over Mike Wallace's table.
There was something about Ash that made every hormone in her body stand up and pant for more
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don't get you then the whiskey must.
Scarlett, from the ashes of the war-ravaged land at Tara, remembering what she was taught by her father in happier times: "As God is my witness, as God is my witness, they're not going to lick me! I'm going to live through this, and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again - no, nor any of my folks! If I have to lie, steal, cheat, or kill! As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again."
Much can they praise the trees so straight and high, The sailing pine,the cedar proud and tall, The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry, The builder oak, sole king of forests all, The aspin good for staves, the cypress funeral, The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors And poets sage, the fir that weepest still, The yew obedient to the bender's will, The birch for shafts, the sallow for the mill, The myrrh sweet-bleeding in the bitter wound, The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill, The fruitful olive, and the platane round, The carver holm, the maple seldom inward sound.
A strong reputation is like a good bonfire. When you have one kindled it's easy to keep the flame burning, even if someone comes along and tries to piss on it. But if you fall asleep and neglect it...You'll wake up with ashes.
I wander though China. Without ever having boarded a plane. My travels take place here in the Tokoyo subways, in the backseat of a taxi... all of a sudden this city will start to go. In a flash, the buildings will crumble. Over the Tokyo streets will fall my China, like ash, leaching into everything it touches. Slowly, gradually, until nothing remains. No, this isn't a place for me.
Her heart of compressed ash, which had resisted the most telling blows of daily reality without strain, fell apart with the first waves of nostalgia.
We stink more of the world than we stink of sack cloth and ashes. A lot of contemporary churches today would feel more at home in a movie house rather than in a house of prayer, more afraid of holy living than of sinning, know more about money than magnifying Christ in our bodies. It is so compromised that holiness and living a sin-free life is heresy to the modern church. The modern church is, quite simply, just the world with a Christian T-shirt on!
Time burns but leaves no ashes.
Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire.
I don't want to have a gravestone. I want to have all my friends burn me and then snort the ashes. I think that's the only way to go out.
So many bright futures consigned to the ashes of the past.So many dreams lost in the madness that had engulfed us.Except for a few widely scattered shouts of joy,the survivors of the abyss sat hollow-eyed and silent, trying to comprehend a world without war.
God, how pointless and empty the world is! Days filled with cheap and tarnished moments succeed each other, restless and haunted nights follow in bitter routine: the sun shines without brightness, and the moon rises without light. My heart has the taste of ashes, and my throat is tight and weary with weeping. What is a lost soul? It is one that has turned from its true path and is groping in the darkness of remembered ways—
Why do you not do as I do? Letting go of your thoughts as though they were the cold ashes of a long dead fire?
If America is to be run by the people, it is the people who must think. And we do not need to put on sackcloth and ashes to think. Nor should our minds work like a sundial which records only sunshine. Our thinking must square against some lessons of history, some principles of government and morals, if we would preserve the rights and dignity of men to which this nation is dedicated.
The fire which seems extinguished often slumbers beneath the ashes.
All people seem to want to talk about is the current Ashes series, and whether England are going to reverse the trend of recent series.
Tradition is the spreading of fire and not the veneration of ashes.
For the human soul is virtually indestructible, and its ability to rise from the ashes remains as long as the body draws breath.
Every day there comes a moment when a person lays his hands in his lap and all his busyness collapses like ashes. The work accomplished is, from the soul's point of view, entirely imaginary.
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