History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscription molders from the tablet: the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust?
Woe unto the defeated, whom history treads into the dust.
Strange that mankind should ever have used the mushroom. All the various species of this substance are of a leathery consistence, and contain but little nutriment. The condiments or seasonings which are added are what are chiefly prized. Without these, we should almost as soon eat saw dust as mushrooms.
You make beautiful things, You make beautiful things out of the dust
Ash on an old man's sleeve / Is all the ash the burnt roses leave, / Dust in the air suspended / Marks the place where a story ended.
The dust of controversy is merely the falsehood flying off.
I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece.
The ache for anything is a thick dust in the heart.
When one studies strongly radioactive substances special precautions must be taken. Dust, the air of the room, and one's clothes, all become radioactive.
With great difficulty advancing by millimeters each year, I carve a road out of the rock. For millenniums my teeth have wasted and my nails broken to get there, to the other side, to the light and the open air. And now that my hands bleed and my teeth tremble, unsure in a cavity cracked by thirst and dust, I pause and contemplate my work. I have spent the second part of my life breaking the stones, drilling the walls, smashing the doors, removing the obstacles I placed between the light and myself in the first part of my life.
It was clear: I was sick. I never used to dream. They say in the old days it was the most normal thing in the world to have dreams. Which makes sense: Their whole life was some kind of horrible merry-go-round of green, orange, Buddha, juice. But today we know that dreams point to a serious mental illness. And I know that up to now my brain has checked out chronometrically perfect, a mechanism without a speck of dust.
This blowing dust became increasingly thicker. It was very much like landing in a fast moving ground fog.
People aren't evil and people aren't good. They live how they can one day at a time. They come out of dust they go back to dust, dusty feet, no wings, and whose fault is that?
I've always been intrigued with the male characters in novels like 'Pride and Prejudice' such as Mr. Darcy, and this poem is part of a series of poems that explore desire and obsessions. The poems have been sitting in a drawer for a few years, so I decided to dust them off and work on them again since I have not written a new poem in more than three years. I'm not sure anything will become of the series, but at least it gives me something to work on in a period where I feel very uncreative.
Love is the simplest of all earthly things. It needs no grandeur of celestial trust In more than what it is, no holy wings: It stands with honest feet in honest dust, And is the body's blossoming in clear air Of trustfulness and joyance when alone Two mortals pass beyond the hour's despair And claim that Paradise which is their own. Amid a universe of sweat and blood, Beyond the glooms of all the nations' hate, Lovers, forgetful of the poisoned mood Of the loud world, in secret ere too late A gentle sacrament may celebrate Before their private altar of the good.
The very first as a cardinal rule for a person to build trust is to do must only that what is humanly just as that helps to wipe and wither away those parasitic people stuck to his life as dirt and dust.
Good excuses rarely collect dust. We use them, and use them, and use them.
Our life is our own to-day, to-morrow you will be dust, a shade, and a tale that is told. Live mindful of death; the hour flies.
Since time immemorial it had been the custom before a sea battle for the men to wash and don clean clothes in case of being wounded. This was all the more necessary under these circumstances, as many of them were still covered with coal dust.
The gospel humbles us into the dust and at the very same time exalts us to the heavens.
When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead - When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed.
The desert is a place of bones, where the innards are turned out, to desiccate into dust.
If you are bathed In God's Forgiveness-Light, Then no dust of earth Will be able to cling to you.
Old or new, the only sign I always try to rid my books of (usually with little success) is the price-sticker that malignant booksellers attach to the backs. These evil white scabs rip off with difficulty, leaving leprous wounds and traces of slime to which adhere the dust and fluff of ages, making me wish for a special gummy hell to which the inventor of these stickers would be condemned.
Passing beauties are only the fugitive reflections of the eternal. All beauty alters and all life melts away; in short, everything passes with marvelous rapidity; beautiful Helen of Troy has become a toothless skull, then a handful of dust, then nothing.
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