If they hear not Moses and the Prophets, neither will they be persuaded though one rose from the dead.
A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.
Yet the children of this world are wise in their generation; and both the politician and the priest are justified by results. The living voice has an influence over human action altogether independent of the intellectual worth of that which it utters. Many years ago, I was a guest at a great City dinner. A famous orator, endowed with a voice of rare flexibility and power; a born actor, ranging with ease through every part, from refined comedy to tragic unction, was called upon to reply to a toast. The orator was a very busy man, a charming conversationalist and by no means despised a good dinner; and, I imagine, rose without having given a thought to what he was going to say. The rhythmic roll of sound was admirable, the gestures perfect, the earnestness impressive; nothing was lacking save sense and, occasionally, grammar. When the speaker sat down the applause was terrific and one of my neighbours was especially enthusiastic. So when he had quieted down, I asked him what the orator had said. And he could not tell me.
Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grave. Ooh, the more I get of you, Stranger it feels, yeah. And now that your rose is in bloom, A light hits the gloom on the grave.
Mare ditat, rosa decorat=--The sea enriches, the rose adorns.
When in the Mexican war the troops were wavering, a general rose in his stirrups and dashed into the enemy's line, shouting, "Men, follow!" They, seeing his courage and disposition, dashed on after him, and gained the victory.
Moses continued writing under the direction of God, but finally he rose up and put away the writing equipment, the ink and the stylus, and the parchment. He put the parchment with others upon which he had let the ink dry, and now he gathered them all together, holding them with trembling hands. These were the records God had given him. Even going back to the story of Adam and Eve and tracing the history of God’s dealing with men. This holy book that Moses had written with his own hand would perish, but he had trained the scribes of Israel to make copies of his work and to take monumental efforts to keep the text exactly as God had given it to Moses himself.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.
As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.
What a pity flowers can utter no sound! A singing rose, a whispering violet, a murmuring honeysuckle,--oh, what a rare and exquisite miracle would these be!--_Beecher._
The rose that all are praising Is not the rose for me.
And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
The Great Spirit does not toil within the bounds of human time, place, or casualty. The Great Spirit is superior to these human questionings. It teems with many rich and wandering drives which to our shallow minds seem contradictory; but in the essence of divinity they fraternize and struggle together, faithful comrades-in-arms. The primordial Spirit branches out, overflows, struggles, fails, succeeds, trains itself. It is the Rose of the Winds.
Good thoughts are blessed guests, and should be heartily welcomed, well fed, and much sought after. Like rose leaves, they give out a sweet smell if laid up in the jar of memory.--_Spurgeon._
The earth was unintelligible to the ancients because looked upon as a solitary being, without a peer in the whole universe; but it assumed a new and true significance as soon as it rose before the eyes of man as one of many planets, all governed by the same laws, and all revolving around the same centre. It is the same with the human soul, and its nature stands before our mind in quite a different light since man has been taught to know and feel himself as a member of a great family--as one of the myriads of wandering stars all governed by the same laws, and all revolving around the same centre, and all deriving their light from the same source. 'Universal History' has laid open new avenues of thought, and it has enriched our language with a word which never passed the lips of Socrates, or Plato, or Aristotle--_Mankind_. Where the Greek saw barbarians, we see brethren; where the Greek saw nations, we see mankind, toiling and suffering, separated by oceans, divided by language, and severed by national enmity,--yet evermore tending, under a divine control, towards the fulfilment of that inscrutable purpose for which the world was created, and man placed in it, bearing the image of God. History therefore, with its dusty and mouldering pages, is to us as sacred a volume as the book of nature. In both we read, or we try to read, the reflex of the laws and thoughts of a Divine Wisdom. We believe that there is nothing irrational in either history or nature, and that the human mind is called upon to read and to revere in both the manifestations of a Divine Power.
O what a noble mind is here o'erthrown! / The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword; / The expectancy and rose of the fair state, / The glass of fashion, and the mould of form, / The observed of all observers, quite, quite down!
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
Through the laburnum's dropping gold Rose the light shaft of Orient mould, And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, Purpled the mossbeds at its feet.
The morn was fair, the skies were clear, No breath came o'er the sea.
At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows.
He was so good he would pour rose-water on a toad.
Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Poetry is not made out of the understanding. The question of common sense is always: "What is it good for?" a question which would abolish the rose and be triumphantly answered by the cabbage.--_Lowell._
With thought, with the ideal, is immortal hilarity, the rose of joy. Round it all the Muses sing.
Eine Rose gebrochen, ehe der Sturm sie entblattert=--A rose broken ere the storm stripped its petals.
Love one human being with warmth and purity, and thou wilt love the world. The heart, in that celestial sphere of love, is like the sun in its course. From the drop on the rose to the ocean, all is for him a mirror, which he fills and brightens.
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
He wears the rose Of youth upon him.
The following story is related by Arabian authors of Ma'an Ibn-Zaidah, who, from a humble origin, rose to be Governor of Irak. The story is probably not altogether historical, but it shows the high ideal of Arab moralists as regards forbearance and gentleness.
Red as a rose is she.
The Word abideth. The Jew hated it--but it lived on, while the veil was torn away from the shrine which the Shekinah had forsaken, and while Jerusalem itself was destroyed. The Greek derided it--but it has seen his philosophy effete and his Acropolis in ruins. The Romans threw it into the flames--but it rose from its ashes, and swooped down upon the falling eagle. The reasoner cast it into the furnace, which his own negligence had heated "seven times hotter than its wont"--but it came out without the smell of fire. The formalist fastened serpents around it to poison it--but it shook them off and felt no harm. The infidel cast it overboard in a tempest of sophistry and sarcasm--but it rode gallantly upon the crest of the proud waters. And it is living still--yet heard in the loudest swelling of the storm--it has been speaking all the while--it is speaking now!--_Punshon._
She what was honour knew, And with obsequious majesty approv'd My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower I led her blushing like the morn; all heaven And happy constellations on that hour Shed their selectest influence; the earth Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill; Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs Whisper'd it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub.
Maybe this was what life was? A series of crap that popped up like weeds, some became a jungle and some stayed in line. But pulling them constantly was becoming a chore.
Thus with the year / Seasons return; but not to me returns / Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, / Or sight of vernal bloom or summer's rose, / Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; / But cloud instead, and ever-during dark / Surrounds me.
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
And the final event to himself has been, that, as he rose like a rocket, he fell like the stick.
Oh, my luve 's like a red, red rose, That 's newly sprung in June; Oh, my luve 's like the melodie That 's sweetly played in tune.
Leave off no clothes / Till you see a June rose.
Angels had been present on many august occasions, and they had joined in many a solemn chorus to the praise of their Almighty Creator. They were present at the creation: "The morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy." They had seen many a planet fashioned between the palms of Jehovah, and wheeled by His eternal hands through the infinitude of space. They had sung solemn songs over many a world which the Great One had created. We doubt not, they had often chanted, "Blessing and honor, and glory, and majesty, and power, and dominion, and might, be unto Him that sitteth on the throne," manifesting Himself in the work of creation. I doubt not, too, that their songs had gathered force through ages. As when first created, their first breath was song, so when they saw God create new worlds, then their song received another note; they rose a little higher in the gamut of adoration. But this time, when they saw God stoop from His throne and become a babe hanging upon a woman's breast, they lifted their notes higher still; and reaching to the uttermost stretch of angelic music, they gained the highest notes of the divine scale of praise and they sang, "Glory to God _in the highest_," for higher in goodness they felt God could not go. Thus their highest praise they gave to Him in the highest act of His Godhead.--_Spurgeon._
We must have books for recreation and entertainment, as well as books for instruction and for business; the former are agreeable, the latter useful, and the human mind requires both. The canon law and the codes of Justinian shall have due honor and reign at the universities, but Homer and Virgil need not therefore be banished. We will cultivate the olive and the vine, but without eradicating the myrtle and the rose.--_Balzac._
How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Once again, the adults were in the dark (like mushrooms, singing in their own shit).
Oh never star Was lost here but it rose afar.
For the sincere friend Who gives me his frank hand. And for the cruel man who pulls out of me the heart with which I live, I grow neither nettles nor thorns: I grow a white rose.
I have heard the mavis singing Its love-song to the morn; I 've seen the dew-drop clinging To the rose just newly born.
She was a form of life and light That seen, became a part of sight, And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, The morning-star of memory! Yes, love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire With angels shared, by Alla given, To lift from earth our low desire.
Sometimes decisions were based on making the best choice amongst bad ones.
The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose.
Die of a rose in aromatic pain.
No, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close; As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets The same look which she turn'd when he rose.
But there was no other option. People didn’t deal because they rose above; they dealt because there was nothing else they could do.
Love sees what no eye sees; hears what no ear hears; and what never rose in the heart of man love prepares for its object.
There is no gathering the rose without being pricked by the thorns.
Somebody, after all, had to make a start. What we wrote and said is also believed by many others. They just don't dare express themselves as we did.
Quick now, here, now, always — A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flames are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
Die of a rose in aromatic pain.
But ne'er the rose without the thorn.
But earthlier happy is the rose distilled, / Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn, / Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
Know'st thou the land where the lemon-trees bloom, Where the gold orange glows in the deep thicket's gloom, Where a wind ever soft from the blue heaven blows, And the groves of laurel and myrtle and rose?
The rose is fairest when 't is budding new, And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears. The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew, And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.
What mighty woes To thy imperial race from woman rose!
An un-blossomed rose, in the garden we want to grow.
Believe me, a thousand friends suffice thee not; In a single enemy thou hast more than enough. I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried C?sar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
Urtic? proxima s?pe rosa est=--The nettle is often next to the rose.
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
Wisdom will not go with comforting illusions, false sentiment, or the use of rose-colored glasses.
her ear. She was stick-thin and pretty, with a loose pink top that let her breasts sway and rose-colored tight pants, but other than her Vegas body, she wasn’t making any effort to look glamorous. Her brown hair hung limply to her shoulders in a mess of curls. She hadn’t put on makeup or jewelry, except for a gold bracelet that she twisted nervously around her wrist with her other hand. The whites of her eyes were lined with red. Amanda began to approach her but found her way blocked by a giant Samoan in a Hawaiian shirt, obviously a bodyguard. She discreetly flashed her badge. The man asked if she could wait, then lumbered over to Tierney and whispered in her ear. The girl studied Amanda, murmured something to the Samoan, and went back to her phone call. “Mrs. Dargon wonders if she could talk to you in her limo,” the bodyguard told Amanda. “It’s waiting outside. There’s a picture of Mr. Dargon on the door.” Amanda shrugged. “Okay.” She found the limo without any problem. Samoa had obviously radioed to the driver, who was waiting for her with the door open. He was in his sixties, and he tipped his black hat to Amanda as she got in. “There’s champagne if you’d like,” he told her. “We have muffins, too, but don’t take the blueberry oatmeal muffin. That’s Mrs. Dargon’s favorite.” Amanda smiled. “She
Never invest your money in anything that eats or needs repainting.
Loveliest of lovely things are they On earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
Every rose has its thorn.
The expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, The observed of all observers!
Death, the dry pedant, spares neither the rose nor the thistle, nor does he forget the solitary blade of grass in the distant waste. He destroys thoroughly and unceasingly. Everywhere we may see how he crushes to dust plants and beasts, men and their works. Even the Egyptian pyramids, that would seem to defy him, are trophies of his power,--monuments of decay, graves of primeval kings.--_Heinrich Heine._
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
Jesus Christ worked miracles, then the apostles, and the early saints in great number, because the prophecies not being yet fulfilled, but only in the way of fulfilment by them, miracles were their only witness. It was foretold that the Messiah should convert the nations, and this prophecy could not be fulfilled without the conversion of the nations. Nor could the nations be converted to Messiah unless they saw the final effect of the prophecies concerning him. Till therefore he died and rose again, and had converted the nations, all was not fulfilled, wherefore miracles were needed during that time. We now need no more miracles against the Jews, for the fulfilment of prophecy is an enduring miracle.
And sweeten'd every musk-rose of the dale.
All that happens is as usual and familiar as the rose in spring and the crop in summer.
A Rose is sweeter in the budde than full blowne.
Una dies aperit, conficit una dies=--In one day it opens its blossoms, in one day it decays.
Feelings are always purest and most glowing in the hour of meeting and farewell; like the glaciers, which are transparent and rose-hued only at sunrise and sunset, but throughout the day grey and cold.
When we desire to confine our words, we commonly say they are spoken under the rose.
Wave after wave, each mightier than the last, Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame: And down the wave and in the flame was borne A naked babe...
Happiness is something that comes into our lives through doors we don't even remember leaving open.
Albus Severus," Harry said quietly, so that nobody but Ginny could hear, and she was tactful enough to pretend to be waving to Rose, who was now on the train, "you were named for two headmasters of Hogwarts. One of them was a Slytherin and he was probably the bravest man I ever knew.
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin.
Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes That on the green turf suck the honied showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.
Ne'er the rose without the thorn.
JOHN LYLY. _Circa_ 1553-1601. Cupid and my Campaspe play'd At cards for kisses: Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows: Loses them too. Then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how); With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple on his chin: All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes: She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me?
Any nose May ravage with impunity a rose.
Couleur de rose=--A flattering representation.
What 's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.
Joy wholly from without is false, precarious and short. Joy from within is like smelling the rose on the tree; it is more sweet, and fair, and lasting.
Thus with the year Seasons return; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me; from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair Presented with a universal blank Of Nature's works, to me expung'd and raz'd, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
And that dismal cry rose slowly And sank slowly through the air, Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair; And they heard the words it said,-- "Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!"
The desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose.
People who have, in a sense, asked Him to join them on their life journey, to follow them wherever they feel they should go, rather than following Him as we are commanded. The God of the universe is not something we can just add to our lives and keep on as we did before. The Spirit who raised Christ from the dead is not someone we can just call on when we want a little extra power in our lives. Jesus Christ did not die in order to follow us. He died and rose again so that we could forget everything else and follow Him to the cross, to true Life.
Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes.
Live, live to-day; to-morrow never yet / On any human being rose or set.
Time past and time future Allow but a little consciousness. To be conscious is not to be in time But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden, The moment in the arbour where the rain beat, The moment in the draughty church at smokefall Be remembered; involved with past and future. Only through time time is conquered.
La guerre était terminée et Frau Emmi Klatte faisait de la récupération. Il ne tombait plus de bombes et les tirs d'artillerie avaient cessé également. La grande ville paraissait morte et détruite, mais il y avait des restes. Au milieu des ruines se dressaient les fantômes insolites de quelques maisons désertes restées debout. Tout appartenait à tout le monde. Mon myosotis de belle-mère rôdait comme une possédée dans ce désert, et rafla entre autres une machine à coudre, quelques machines à écrire, quatre tapis, dix-sept coquetiers, un cadre doré, une porte en fer forgé, un poulailler et un tableau monumental. La toile représentait un nu d'un rose vaporeux, une femme à demi allongée sur le ventre, balançant au bout d'un index également rose un magnifique papillon bleu. Rêveuse et l'air absent, comme il se doit.
All their life was spent not in laws, statutes, or rules, but according to their own free will and pleasure. They rose out of their beds when they thought good: they did eat, drink, labour, sleep, when they had a mind to it, and were disposed for it. None did awake them, none did offer to constrain them to eat, drink, nor to do any other thing; for so had Gargantua established it. In all their rule, and strictest tie of their order, there was but this one clause to be observed, DO WHAT THOU WILT. Because men that are free, well-born, well-bred, and conversant in honest companies, have naturally an instinct and spur that prompteth them unto virtuous actions, and withdraws them from vice, which is called honour.
He who boasts of being perfect is perfect in folly. I never saw a perfect man. Every rose has its thorns, and every day its night. Even the sun shows spots, and the skies are darkened with clouds. And faults of some kind nestle in every bosom.--_Spurgeon._
His voice rose under the black smoke before the burning wreckage of the island; and infected by that emotion, the other little boys began to shake and sob too. And in the middle of them, with filthy body, matted hair, and unwiped nose, Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy.
'T is the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone.
What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden.
Sub rosa=--Under the rose; confidentially.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.
When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?
What's in a name? That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet.
And her face so fair Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.
My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close Is scattered on the ground--to die.
Silently as a dream the fabric rose, No sound of hammer or of saw was there.
I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose. I know nothing about it; I am my own ancestor.[806-2] (When asked as to his ancestry.) Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,-- Take, I give it willingly; For, invisible to thee, Spirits twain have crossed with me.