The poet is at the disposal of the night. His role is humble, he must clean house and await its due visitation.
Problems, however, are rarely solved on the spur of the moment. They must be organized and dissected, then key issues isolated and defined. A period of gestation then sets in, during which these issues are mulled over. You put them in your mind and consciously or unconsciously work at them at odd hours of the day or night - even at work. It is somewhat analogous to trying to place a name on the face of someone you've met before. Often the solution to a problem comes to you in much the same way you eventually recall the name.
Ideas for gadgets for the disabled were coming into my head so fast they seemed to be arriving from somewhere outside of me, beamed down by an unremitting force. I had little control over them, or their flow. I would wake up in the middle of the night. A blinding flash of an idea would rouse me from my bed and I'd rush down to my workshop to have a go at it before the inspiration dimmed.
The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that won't believe. The Owl that calls upon the Night Speaks the Unbeliever's fright.
Crossing the uplands of time, Skirting the borders of night, Scaling the face of the peak of dreams, We enter the region of light, And hastening on with eager intent, Arrive at the rainbow's end, And here uncover the pot of gold Buried deep in the heart of a friend.
By the margin of fair Zurich's waters Dwelt a youth, whose fond heart, night and day, For the fairest of fair Zurich's daughters In a dream of love melted away.
How do we want our air? Pure. How do we want our water? Pure. How do we want sex on our wedding night? Pure.
Mine is the time of foliage, When hills and valleys teem With buds and vines sweet scented, All clothed in glowing green. My nights are bright and starry, My days are long and clear And truly I'm the fairest, Of all months in the year.
Inflowing thoughts come to an end in those who are ever alert of mind, training themselves night and day, and ever intent on nirvana
My fellow Americans: Last night when I spoke with you about the fall of Rome, I knew at that moment that the troops of the United States and our allies were crossing the channel in another and greater operation. It has come to pass with success thus far. And so, in this poignant hour, I ask you to join me in prayer: Almighty God: Our sons, pride of our nation, this day have set upon a mighty endeavor, a struggle to preserve our Republic, our religion, and our civilization. . .
In reality, the main thing that keeps me awake at night is probably the destruction of the planet that's what gets me pretty upset.
How long the night to the watchman, How long the road to the weary traveller, How long the wandering of many lives To the fool who misses the way.
And if you sing though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man's ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night.
Behind every footballing tough guy there lurks a mincing aesthete with a love of art for art's sake, football for football's sake. A win without art is somehow less than a victory; less, almost, than a beautiful defeat. In football, the romantic and the pragmatist are ever at war in the same breast. Beauty, it must be understood here, is not Barcelona's aim but their method. And last night they were ready to use this method at every opportunity - quick-fire passing of wit and purpose in the danger areas, seeking always to produce an unlooked-for player in a position of threat.
Most musicians I know don't just play music on Saturday night. They play music every day. They are always fiddling around, letting the notes lead them from one place to another. Taking still photographs is like that. It is a generative process. It pulls you along.
Who gave you the ability to contemplate the beauty of the skies, the course of the sun, the round moon, the millions of stars, the harmony and rhythm that issue from the world as from a lyre, the return of the seasons, the alternation of the months, the demarcation of day and night, the fruits of the earth, the vastness of the air, the ceaseless motion of the waves, the sound of the wind?
Air racing may not be better than your wedding night, but it's better than the second night.
Sometimes I come here just to be a lost mariner but I am never lost: there are the snowflakes frozen to the porthole of a jewelry store, here is the treasure chest open to a single pearl laid on a velvet slab, there is the plashing of faces in the aisles and the row of lockers stuffed with the coats and hats of the drowned and it is night, and the moon rows over the gentle waters of the parking lot.
All night, my face next to your mouth, I hold my breath, listening to yours.
The term bohemian has a bad reputation because it's allied to myriad clichés, but Parisians originally adopted the term, associated with nomadic Gypsies, to describe artists and writers who stayed up all night and ignored the pressures of the industrial world.
To wish for your own happiness is sometimes coupled with another's unhappiness. So then, what exactly should I pray for? Since I couldn't pray for my own happiness, I prayed to the moon in the night sky for the happiness of the one whose warm hand I held.
Every time we think about being happy again, it hurts to be alive. Because it seems an inordinate thing for us to wish for. And because we think that day will never come for us. And that's why the only thing we can do for now... ...is just try to get through each night.
Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. [The Motto Of The U.S. Postal Service]
Most of you have been where I am tonight. The crash site of unrequited love. You ask yourself, How did I get here? What was it about? Was it her smile? Was it the way she crossed her legs, the turn of her ankle, the poignant vulnerability of her slender wrists? What are these elusive and ephemeral things that ignite passion in the human heart? That's an age-old question. It's perfect food for thought on a bright midsummer's night.
People think we don't give a toss about the game, but when I walked out of Windsor Park that night I felt lower than a snake's belly. The reality is still there.
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