Weary Quotes - Page 22

• Cut the Wings of your Hens and Hopes, lest they lead you a weary Dance after them.

  Benjamin Franklin

  Hope, Cutting, Wings

  Benjamin Franklin (2007). “Poor Richard's Almanack”, p.62, Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.

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• So much I feel my genial spirits droop, My hopes all flat, nature within me seems In her functions weary of herself.

  John Milton

  Spirit, Function, Flats

  1671 Samson Agonistes, l.594-6.

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• I never was attached to that great sect, Whose doctrine is, that each one should select Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend, And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend To cold oblivion, though it is in the code Of modern morals, and the beaten road Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread, Who travel to their home among the dead By the broad highway of the world, and so With one chained friend — perhaps a jealous foe, The dreariest and the longest journey go.

  Percy Bysshe Shelley

  Marriage, Wise, Home

  'Epipsychidion' (1821) l. 149

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• The night folds her trembling hands over a weary world. Out of a pale blue rises the shining moon. My thoughts are flying to the stars like lonely swans.

  Joseph Goebbels

  Lonely, Stars, Night

  "Michael: a German fate in diary notes". Book by Joseph Goebbels, 1926.

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• Sit Rest Work. Alone with yourself, Never weary. On the edge of the forest Live joyfully, Without desire.

  Gautama Buddha

  Desire, Forests, Edges

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• I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life,-The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife....The hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart,Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part.

  William Wetmore Story

  Heart, Humble, Hymns

  William Wetmore Story, “Io Victis”

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• If you gave me just a coin for every time we say goodbyeWell I'd be rich beyond my dreams, I'm sorry for my weary lifeI know I'm not perfect but I can smileand I hope that you see this heart behind my tired eyes.

  Dido Armstrong

  Dream, Sorry, Tired

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• Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed;Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  Wall, Lying, Heart

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1861). “The poetical works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, including his translations and notes”, p.40

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• A true home is one of the most sacred of places. It is a sanctuary into which men flee from the world's perils and alarms. It is a resting-place to which at close of day the weary retire to gather new strength for the battle and toils of tomorrow. It is the place where love learns its lessons, where life is schooled into discipline and strength, where character is molded.

  J.R. Miller

  Home, Character, Men

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• The Southern newspapers, with their advertisements of negro sales and personal descriptions of fugitive slaves, supply details of misery that it would be difficult for imagination to exceed. Scorn, derision, insult, menace - the handcuff, the last - the tearing away of children from parents, of husbands from wives - the weary trudging in droves along the common highways, the labor of body, the despair of mind, the sickness of heart - these are the realities which belong to the system, and form the rule, rather that the exception, in the slave's experience.

  Fanny Kemble

  Husband, Children, Heart

  Fanny Kemble (1961). “Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation in 1838-1839”, p.6, University of Georgia Press

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• Not thine the sorrow, but ours, sainted soul! Thou hast indeed entered into the promised land, while we are yet on the march. To us remain the rocking of the deep, the storm upon the land, days of duty and nights of watching; but thou are sphered high above all darkness and fear, beyond all sorrow and weariness. Rest, oh, weary heart!

  Henry Ward Beecher

  Heart, Night, Land

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• The weary August days are long;
  The locusts sing a plaintive song,
  The cattle miss their master's call
  When they see the sunset shadows fall.

  Edmund Clarence Stedman

  Summer, Song, Fall

  Edmund Clarence Stedman (1869). “Alice of Monmouth: An Idyl of the Great War : with Other Poems”, p.47

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• I'm weary of my lonely but
  And of its blasted tree,
  The very lake is like my lot,
  So silent constantly--
  I've liv'd amid the forest gloom
  Until I almost fear--
  When will the thrilling voices come
  My spirit thirsts to hear?

  Nathaniel Parker Willis

  Country, Lonely, Voice

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• How beautiful it is for a man to die
  Upon the walls of Zion! to be called
  Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel,
  To put his armour off, and rest in heaven!

  Nathaniel Parker Willis

  Beautiful, Death, Wall

  Nathaniel Parker Willis (1868). “The Poems: Sacred, Passionate, and Humorous”, p.110

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• How often you are irresistibly drawn to a plain, unassuming woman, whose soft silvery tones render her positively attractive! In the social circle, how pleasant it is to hear a woman talk in that low key which always characterizes the true lady. In the sanctuary of home, how such a voice soothes the fretful child and cheers the weary husband!

  Charles Lamb

  Cheer, Children, Husband

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• The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary,
  And I am near to fall, infirm and weary.

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  Fall, Sunshine, Shadow

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (2008). “Michael Angelo and Translations”, p.353, Wildside Press LLC

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• Every one is weary, the poore in seeking, the rich in keeping, the good in learning.

  George Herbert

  Rich, Seeking

  George Herbert, Christopher Harvey, George Gilfillan (1857). “The poetical works of George Herbert”, p.312

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• Man hath a weary pilgrimage,
  As through the word he wends;
  On every stage, from youth to age,
  Still discontent attends.

  Robert Southey

  Men, Age, Youth

  Robert Southey (1866). “The Poetical Works of Robert Southey: Complete in One Volume”, p.118

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• Among the poor, the approach of dissolution is usually regarded with a quiet and natural composure, which it is consolatory to contemplate, and which is as far removed from the dead palsy of unbelief as it is from the delirious raptures of fanaticism. Theirs is a true, unhesitating faith, and they are willing to lay down the burden of e weary life, in the sure and certain hope of a blessed immortality.

  Robert Southey

  Death, Blessed, Quiet

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• You will do very well to refuse offices; for a man seldom fails to give offense in them. It ought to weary you simply to hear them mentioned.

  St. Catherine of Siena

  Men, Giving, Office

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• A fly is a very light burden; but if it were perpetually to return and settle on one's nose, it might weary us of our very lives.

  Fredrika Bremer

  Light, Noses, Might

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• May we, as image makers, shapers of the culture, set our sights on things we value, rituals we engage in that heal and serve. May our images honor the ordinary endeavors of common people, and may they make their way to the eyes of the weary - light to the dark, fire to the chill.

  Jan Phillips

  Eye, Dark, Fire

  Jan Phillips, Cathy Conheim, Christine Forester, Circle of Women (2000). “A Waist Is a Terrible Thing to Mind: A Wake Up Call”, Breakthru Press

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• Christmas turns things tail-end foremost. The day and the spirit of Christmas rearrange the world parade. As the world arranges it, usually there come first in importance -- leading the parade with a big blare of a band -- the Big Shots. Frequently they are also the Stuffed Shirts. That's the first of the parade. Then at the tail end, as of little importance, trudge the weary, the poor, the lame, the halt, and the blind. But in the Christmas spirit, the procession is turned around. Those at the tail end are put first in the arrangement of the Child of Christmas.

  Bill Vaughan

  Children, Tails, Band

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• If by prayer
  Incessant I could hope to change the will
  Of him who all things can, I would not cease
  To weary him with my assiduous cries;
  But prayer against his absolute decree
  No more avails than breath against the wind
  Blown stifling back on him that breathes it forth:
  Therefore to his great bidding I submit.

  John Milton

  Prayer, Wind, Bidding

  John Milton (1844). “The Poetical Works of John Milton: With a Memoir, and Seven Embellishments”, p.247

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• At last, in the gray dawn of Civilization the fire in the Soul dies down. The dwindling powers rise to one more, half-successful, effort of creation, and produce the Classicism that is common to all dying Cultures. The soul thinks once again, and in Romanticism looks back piteously to its childhood; then finally, weary, reluctant, cold, it loses its desire to be, and, as in Imperial Rome, wishes itself out of the overlong daylight and back in the darkness of protomysticism in the womb of the mother in the grave.

  Oswald Spengler

  Mother, Successful, Thinking

  Oswald Spengler (1991). “The Decline of the West”, p.75, Oxford University Press, USA

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