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1.013_-_Thunder

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1.013_-_Thunder

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   12 Sri Aurobindo
   1 Stephen King
   1 Shiki
   1 Our Lady of La Salette
   1 Swami Vivekananda
   1 Ogawa

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   61 Erin Hunter
   29 Terry Pratchett
   22 Anonymous
   18 Stephen King
   17 William Shakespeare
   15 Mark Twain
   14 Sri Aurobindo
   13 Rumi
   11 Neil Gaiman
   11 J K Rowling
   11 Anna Akhmatova
   10 Sun Tzu
   10 Herman Melville
   9 Douglas Adams
   8 Robert Louis Stevenson
   8 Rick Riordan
   8 Frederick Douglass
   7 Victor Hugo
   7 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   7 Penelope Douglas

1:at the end of a journey thunder ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

2:brutal heat my mind wanders listening to the thunder ~ Shiki, @BashoSociety

3:Music and thunder are the rhythmic chords Of one majestic harp. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Plays and Stories, Act I,

4:Rejoice and fear not for the waves that swell, The storms that thunder, winds that sweep; Always our Captain holds the rudder well, He does not sleep. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, To R.,

5:In the black night the wrath of storm swept by, The thunder crashed above her, the rain hissed, Its million footsteps pattered on the roof. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Parable of the Search for the Soul,

6:A thunder rolling mid the hills of God, Tireless, severe is their tremendous Voice: Exceeding us, to exceed ourselves they call And bid us rise incessantly above. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Heavens of the Ideal,

7:All sounds, all voices have become Thy voice, Music and thunder and the cry of birds, Life's babble of her sorrows and her joys, Cadence of human speech and murmured words, ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, The Divine Hearing,

8:Armies of revolution crossed the time-field, The clouds' unending march besieged the world, Tempests' pronunciamentos claimed the sky And thunder drums announced the embattled gods. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Birth and Childhood of the Flame,

9:A giant dance of Shiva tore the past; There was a thunder as of worlds that fall; Earth was o'errun with fire and the roar of Death Clamouring to slay a world his hunger had made; There was a clangour of Destruction's wings: ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Vision and the Boon,

10:Stood visible, Titanic, scarlet-clad, Dark as a thunder-cloud, with streaming hair Obscuring heaven, and in her sovran grasp The sword, the flower, the boon, the bleeding head,— Bhavani. Then she vanished; the daylight Was ordinary in a common w ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Baji Prabhou,

11:Let him close the ears with his thumbs .... This is my most beloved Yoga. From practicing this gradually, the Yogi begins to hear mystic sounds (nadas). The first sound is like the hum of the honey-intoxicated bee (matta-bhrnga), next that of a flute (venu), then of a harp (vina); after this, by the gradual practice of Yoga, the destroyer of the darkness of the world, he hears the sounds of ringing bells (ghanta) then sounds like roar of thunder (megha).    ~ Shiva-Samhita,

12:    When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy.    When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.    When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.    When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.    When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder.    ~ Rabindranath Tagore,

13:In the stillness of the night, the Goddess whispers. In the brightness of the day, dear God roars. Life pulses, mind imagines, emotions wave, thoughts wander. What are all these but the endless movements of One Taste, forever at play with its own gestures, whispering quietly to all who would listen: is this not yourself? When the thunder roars, do you not hear your Self? When the lightning cracks, do you not see your Self? When clouds float quietly across the sky, is this not your own limitless Being, waving back at you? ~ Ken Wilber, One Taste, page 279,

14:Gird up thy loins now like a man; I will demand of thee, and declare thou unto me. Wilt thou also disannul my judgment? Wilt thou condemn me, that thou mayst be righteous? Hast thou an arm like God? or canst thou thunder with a voice like him? Deck thyself now with majesty and excellency; and array thyself with glory and beauty. Cast abroad the rage of thy wrath: and behold every one that is proud and abase him. Look on every one that is proud, and bring him low; and tread down the wicked in their place. Hide them in the dust together; and bind their faces in secret. Then I will also confess unto thee that thine own hand can save thee. ~ Anonymous, The Bible, Job, 40:7-14,

15:Apotheosised, transfigured by wisdom's touch,    Her days became a luminous sacrifice;    An immortal moth in happy and endless fire,    She burned in his sweet intolerable blaze.    A captive Life wedded her conqueror.    In his wide sky she built her world anew;    She gave to mind's calm pace the motor's speed,    To thinking a need to live what the soul saw,    To living an impetus to know and see.    His splendour grasped her, her puissance to him clung;    She crowned the Idea a king in purple robes,    Put her magic serpent sceptre in Thought's grip,    Made forms his inward vision's rhythmic shapes    And her acts the living body of his will.    A flaming thunder, a creator flash,    His victor Light rode on her deathless Force;    ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Glory and the Fall of Life,

16:Driven by her breath across life's tossing deep, Through the thunder's roar and through the windless hush, Through fog and mist where nothing more is seen, He carries her sealed orders in his breast. Late will he know, opening the mystic script, Whether to a blank port in the Unseen He goes or, armed with her fiat, to discover A new mind and body in the city of God And enshrine the Immortal in his glory's house And make the finite one with Infinity. Across the salt waste of the endless years Her ocean winds impel his errant boat, The cosmic waters plashing as he goes, A rumour around him and danger and a call. Always he follows in her force's wake. He sails through life and death and other life, He travels on through waking and through sleep. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, 1:4,

17:The madman.-    Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place. and cried incessantly: "I seek God! I seek God!" -As many of those who did not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. Has he got lost? asked one. Did he lose his way like a child? asked another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? emigrated? -Thus they yelled and laughed.    The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. "Whither is God?" he cried; "I will tell you. We have killed him-you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward. forward. in all directions? be there still any up or down? Are we not straying as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too. decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.    "How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us-for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto."    Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, and it broke into pieces and went out. "I have come too early," he said then: "my time is not yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than the most distant stars-and yet they have done it themselves... It has been related further that on the same day the madman forced his way into several churches and there struck up his reqttiem aeternam deo. Led out and called to account, he is said always to have replied nothing but: "What after all are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God? ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science, trans. Kaufmann,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:Sometimes the silence can be like thunder. ~ bob-dylan, @wisdomtrove

2:Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder. ~ rumi, @wisdomtrove

3:Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the work. ~ mark-twain, @wisdomtrove

4:I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me. ~ john-keats, @wisdomtrove

5:When discord dreadful bursts her brazen bars, And shatters locks to thunder forth her wars. ~ horace, @wisdomtrove

6:God only exhibits his thunder and lightning at intervals, and so they always command attention. ~ mark-twain, @wisdomtrove

7:The same battle in the clouds will be known to the deaf only as lightning and to the blind only as thunder. ~ george-santayana, @wisdomtrove

8:Here Jove with Hermes came; but in disguise Of mortal men conceal'd their deities; One laid aside his thunder, one his rod ~ ovid, @wisdomtrove

9:The sky is now indelible ink, The branches reft asunder; But you and I we do not shrink; We love the lovely thunder. ~ ogden-nash, @wisdomtrove

10:When I read Shakespeare I am struck with wonder that such trivial people should muse and thunder in such lovely language. ~ d-h-lawrence, @wisdomtrove

11:Dangerous, therefore, is it to take shelter under a tree, during a thunder-gust. It has been fatal to many, both men and beasts. ~ benjamin-franklin, @wisdomtrove

12:Now and then there comes a crash of thunder in a storm, and we look up with amazement when he sets the heavens on a blaze with his lightning. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

13:Stronger than thunder's winged force All-powerful gold can speed its course; Through watchful guards its passage make, And loves through solid walls to break. ~ horace, @wisdomtrove

14:If you have attained something, this is the surest proof that you have gone astray. Therefore, not to have is to have, silence is thunder, ignorance is enlightenment. ~ d-t-suzuki, @wisdomtrove

15:Through endless time God's greatest gift is continuously given in silence. But whenmankind becomes completely deaf to the thunder of His Silence God incarnates as Man. ~ meher-baba, @wisdomtrove

16:What manner of men should ministers be? They should thunder in preaching, and lighten in conversation; they should be flaming in prayer, shining in life, and burning in spirit. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

17:I'll tell you, I've seen the lightning flash. I've heard the thunder roll. I felt sin-breakers dashing, trying to conquer my soul. But I heard the voice of Jesus saying still to fight on. ~ martin-luther-king, @wisdomtrove

18:Enthusiasm produces the most cruel disorders in human society; but its fury is like that of thunder and tempest, which exhaust themselves in a little time, and leave the air more calm and serene than before. ~ david-hume, @wisdomtrove

19:The storm had now definitely abated, and what thunder there was now grumbled over more distant hills, like a man saying &

20:We call that fire of the black thunder-cloud "electricity," and lecture learnedly about it, and grind the like of it out of glass and silk: but what is it? What made it? Whence comes it? Whither goes it? ~ thomas-carlyle, @wisdomtrove

21:When the thunder roars, do you not hear your Self? When the lightening cracks, do you not see your Self? When clouds float quietly across the sky, is this not your very own limitless Being, waving back at you? ~ ken-wilber, @wisdomtrove

22:Yin and yang, male and female, strong and weak, rigid and tender, heaven and earth, light and darkness, thunder and lightning, cold and warmth,  good and evil... the interplay of opposite principles constitutes the universe. ~ confucius, @wisdomtrove

23:God of earth and altar, Bow down and hear our cry,  Our earthly rulers falter,  Our people drift and die;  The walls of gold entomb us,  The swords of scorn divide,  Take not thy thunder from us,  But take away our pride. ~ g-k-chesterton, @wisdomtrove

24:The sky is changed,-and such a change! O night And storm and darkness! ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

25:Many demons are in woods, in waters, in wildernesses, and in dark poolly places ready to hurt and prejudice people; some are also in the thick black clouds, which cause hail, lightning and thunder, and poison the air, the pastures and grounds. ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove

26:He raised his staff. There was a roll of thunder. The sunlight was blotted out from the eastern windows; the whole hall became suddenly dark as night. The fire faded to sullen embers. Only Gandalf could be seen, standing white and tall before the blackened hearth. ~ j-r-r-tolkien, @wisdomtrove

27:I received Christ into my heart and my life began to change. But it was a gradual change. And I didn't see any flashing bulbs. I didn't hear any thunder. There was no great emotional experience. It was just saying: Yes, Lord Jesus, I want you to be the lord of my life. ~ billy-graham, @wisdomtrove

28:The great men of earth are the shadow men, who, having lived and died, now live again and forever through their undying thoughts. Thus living, though their footfalls are heard no more, their voices are louder than the thunder, and unceasing as the flow of tides or air. ~ henry-ward-beecher, @wisdomtrove

29:It was one of those hot, silent nights, when people sit at windows listening for the thunder which they know will shortly break; when they recall dismal tales of hurricanes and earthquakes; and of lonely travellers on open plains, and lonely ships at sea, struck by lightning. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove

30:Loving is like music. Some instruments can go up two octaves, some four, and some all the way from black thunder to sharp lightning. As some of them are susceptible only of melody, so some hearts can sing but one song of love, while others will fun in a full choral harmony. ~ henry-ward-beecher, @wisdomtrove

31:When there came a sound that I'd never heard the like of in all my born days. Eh, I won't forget that. The whole air was full of it, loud as thunder but far longer, cool and sweet as music over water but strong enough to shake the woods. And I said to myself, &

32:And I'll tell you, I've seen the lightning flash. I've heard the thunder roll. I felt sin-breakers dashing, trying to conquer my soul. But I heard the voice of Jesus saying still to fight on. He promised never to leave me, never to leave me alone. No, never alone. He promised never to leave me, never to leave me alone. ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove

33:When a man is just and firm in his purpose, The citizens burning to approve a wrong Or the frowning looks of a tyrant Do not shake his fixed mind, nor the Southwind. Wild lord of the uneasy Adriatic, Nor the thunder in the mighty hand of Jove: Should the heavens crack and tumble down, As the ruins crushed him he would not fear. ~ horace, @wisdomtrove

34:Your life began in the heart & mind of the Infinite. Mentally relive the days when as a child you ran free, when there were infinite possibilities of what you could feel, accomplish, and see in the world. Allow for the energy of your remembered freedom to thunder through you, and you will free your self from the false obstacles your adult. ~ michael-beckwith, @wisdomtrove

35:My friend wants to get moving and so do I,' Eddie said. &

36:The old truth that Calvin preached, that Augustine preached, that Paul preached, is the truth that I must preach to-day, or else be false to my conscience and my God. I cannot shape the truth; I know of no such thing as paring off the rough edges of a doctrine. John Knox's gospel is my gospel. That which thundered through Scotland must thunder through England again. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

37:The whole life-effort of man is to get his life into direct contact with the elemental life of the cosmos, mountain life, cloud life, thunder life, air life, earth life, sun life. To come into immediate felt contact, and so derive energy, power and a dark sort of joy. This effort into sheer naked contact, without an intermediary or mediator is the root meaning of religion. ~ d-h-lawrence, @wisdomtrove

38:Under none of the accredited ghostly circumstances, and environed by none of the conventional ghostly surroundings, did I first make acquaintance with the house which is the subject of this Christmas piece. I saw it in the daylight, with the sun upon it. There was no wind, no rain, no lightning, no thunder, no awful or unwonted circumstance, of any kind, to heighten its effect. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove

39:Doth not all nature around me praise God? If I were silent, I should be an exception to the universe. Doth not the thunder praise Him as it rolls like drums in the march of the God of armies? Do not the mountains praise Him when the woods upon their summits wave in adoration? Doth not the lightning write His name in letters of fire? Hath not the whole earth a voice? And shall I, can I, silent be? ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

40:A sudden gust of rain blew over them and then another - as if small liquid clouds were bouncing along the land. Lightning entered the sea far off and the air blew full of crackling thunder. The table cloths blew around the pillars. They blew and blew and blew. The flags twisted around the red chairs like live things, the banners were ragged, the corners of the table tore off through the burbling billowing ends of the cloths. ~ f-scott-fitzgerald, @wisdomtrove

41:Raindrops are beating, a large puddle is forming, there on the balcony. It all floats in Emptiness, in purest Transparency, with no one here to watch it. If there is an I, it is all that is arising, right now and right now and right now. My lungs are the sky; those mountains are my teeth; the clouds are my skin; the thunder is my heart beating time to the timeless; the rain itself, the tears of our collective estate, here where nothing is really happening. ~ ken-wilber, @wisdomtrove

42:The clouds were flying fast, the wind was coming up in gusts, banging some neighboring shutters that had broken loose, twirling the rusty chimney-cowls and weathercocks, and rushing round and round a confined adjacent churchyard as if it had a mind to blow the dead citizens out of their graves. The low thunder, muttering in all quarters of the sky at once, seemed to threaten vengeance for this attempted desecration, and to mutter, "Let them rest! Let them rest! ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove

43:Yosemite Valley, to me, is always a sunrise, a glitter of green and golden wonder in a vast edifice of stone and space. I know of no sculpture, painting or music that exceeds the compelling spiritual command of the soaring shape of granite cliff and dome, of patina of light on rock and forest, and of the thunder and whispering of the falling, flowing waters. At first the colossal aspect may dominate; then we perceive and respond to the delicate and persuasive complex of nature. ~ amsel-adams, @wisdomtrove

44:Instead of looking at books and pictures about the New Testament I looked at the New Testament. There I found an account, not in the least of a person with his hair parted in the middle or his hands clasped in appeal, but of an extraordinary being with lips of thunder and acts of lurid decision, flinging down tables, casting out devils, passing with the wild secrecy of the wind from mountain isolation to a sort of dreadful demagogy; a being who often acted like an angry god — and always like a god. ~ g-k-chesterton, @wisdomtrove

45:When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy. When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song. When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest. When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king. When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder. ~ rabindranath-tagore, @wisdomtrove

46:In the stillness of the night, the Goddess whispers. In the brightness of the day, dear God roars. Life pulses, mind imagines, emotions wave, thoughts wander. What are all these but the endless movements of One Taste, forever at play with its own gestures, whispering quietly to all who would listen: is this not yourself? When the thunder roars, do you not hear your Self? When the lightning cracks, do you not see your Self? When clouds float quietly across the sky, is this not your own limitless Being, waving back at you? ~ ken-wilber, @wisdomtrove

47:The best thing is to go from nature's God dawn to nature; and if you once get to nature's God, and believe Him, and love Him, it is surprising how easy it is to hear music in the waves, and songs in the wild whisperings of the winds; to see God everywhere in the stones, in the rocks, in the rippling brooks, and hear Him everywhere, in the lowing of cattle, in the rolling of thunder, and in the fury of tempests. Get Christ first, put Him in the right place, and you will find Him to be the wisdom of God in your own experience. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

48:And they heard the roaring thunder of a third brilliantly lighted express. "Are they pursuing the first travelers?" demanded the little prince. "They are pursuing nothing at all," said the switchman. "They are asleep in there, or if they are not asleep they are yawning. Only the children are flattening their noses against the windowpanes." "Only the children know what they are looking for," said the little prince. "They waste their time over a rag doll and it becomes very important to them; and if anybody takes it away from them, they cry... " "They are lucky," the switchman said. ~ antoine-de-saint-exupery, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Thunder and turf! ~ Julie Klassen,

2:The God of Thunder has ~ Lois Lowry,

3:Don't fear the thunder ~ David Guenther,

4:I want quiet thunder. ~ Charles Bukowski,

5:like candy thunder. Oh, ~ Anthony Burgess,

6:Thunder’s throat tightened. ~ Erin Hunter,

7:Thunder Point, Oregon, because ~ Robyn Carr,

8:Thunder Rolls bowling alley ~ Kathleen Bacus,

9:When the thunder rumbles, ~ Leonard Bernstein,

10:You’re thunder and I’m lightning? ~ R J Lewis,

11:Around thrones the thunder rolls. ~ C J Sansom,

12:The thunder of love is unassailable. ~ Ted Baillieu,

13:And thou, all-shaking thunder, ~ William Shakespeare,

14:As the dawn comes up like thunder. ~ Rudyard Kipling,

15:Have you met Thor? He makes thunder. ~ Douglas Adams,

16:There's thunder even on the loftiest peaks. ~ Seneca,

17:Yet this rumble is cartoon thunder. ~ Richard Powers,

18:Fuck him with your thunder stick. ~ Marshall Thornton,

19:I am thunder. I am lightning. I am death. ~ Emma Hamm,

20:Thunder rolled . . It rolled a six. ~ Terry Pratchett,

21:Sometimes the silence can be like thunder. ~ Bob Dylan,

22:Thunder only happens when it's raining. ~ Stevie Nicks,

23:When I am silent, I have thunder hidden inside. ~ Rumi,

24:I fell in love with the thunder. ~ Benjamin Alire S enz,

25:You gotta eat lightning and crap thunder! ~ Shane McMahon,

26:No rain but thunder, and the sound of giants. ~ Mike Mignola,

27:I can feel the thunder underneath my feet ~ Melissa Etheridge,

28:Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic. ~ W H Auden,

29:The God of Thunder has fallen into the milk pail! ~ Lois Lowry,

30:So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. ~ William Shakespeare,

31:In the City of God there will be a great thunder, ~ Nostradamus,

32:A drop of water is as powerful as a thunder-bolt. ~ Thomas Huxley,

33:every thunderstorm has more than one thunder clap. ~ Sable Sylvan,

34:Disappeare with the thunder....... Sasuke said ~ Masashi Kishimoto,

35:In the absence of real thunder, he's making his own. ~ Ally Condie,

36:Thought precedes action as lighting does thunder. ~ Heinrich Heine,

37:Besides, I don’t want to steal your thunder,” I tease. ~ Kim Holden,

38:If the thunder don't get ya then the lightning will. ~ Jerry Garcia,

39:Natural thunder heralds the wetness of fresh water ~ Anna Akhmatova,

40:I escaped the Thunder, and fell into the Lightning. ~ George Herbert,

41:The thunder growled loud enough to wake the storm. ~ Jonathan Maberry,

42:You can see the clouds rolling in and thunder is imminent. ~ Don King,

43:Thunder sounded, very near, and the child woke. ~ Donna Woolfolk Cross,

44:but the ground rumbled with a growing, urgent thunder. ~ Steven Erikson,

45:The guilty are alarmed and turn pale at the slightest thunder. ~ Juvenal,

46:The timbre of his voice has a lot in common with thunder. ~ Jandy Nelson,

47:Thunder and lightning, it's like the end of the world. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zafon,

48:She [Dokic] left the court with a face as long as thunder. ~ John Inverdale,

49:Money is an echo of value. It's the thunder to Value's Lightning. ~ Bob Burg,

50:...ropes of silver gliding from sunny thunder into freshness. ~ E E Cummings,

51:If you ride like lightning, you're gonna crash like thunder. ~ Ben Mendelsohn,

52:Take not thy thunder from us, but take away our pride. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,

53:Thunder on! Stride on! Democracy. Strike with vengeful stroke! ~ Walt Whitman,

54:I am thinking, yes, about mute thunder. The honey of twilight. ~ C sar Vallejo,

55:Lies save trouble now, but may return in thunder and lightning. ~ Mason Cooley,

56:Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder. ~ Rumi,

57:Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan. ~ Robinson Jeffers,

58:If there were no thunder, men would have little fear of lightning. ~ Jules Verne,

59:Noon, ripe as thunder and silent as thought, had fled unfingered. ~ Mervyn Peake,

60:I am so mean I've handcuffed lightnin' and thrown thunder in jail. ~ Muhammad Ali,

61:I can start the rain. Bring thunder. Bring lightning. Want to see? ~ Janet Morris,

62:Mutiny, it was plain, hung over us like a thunder-cloud. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,

63:Thunder rolled like a distant avalanche in the mountain valleys.… ~ Louis L Amour,

64:If we go to heaven they'll put us to work on the thunder, captain. ~ Georg B chner,

65:It is better to hear the thunder than to watch the cloud. ~ Charles Robert Maturin,

66:It’s hard to fall asleep when Zeus is machine-gunning thunder at you. ~ Mike Mullin,

67:Raise your words, not your voice, it's rain that grows flowers, not thunder. ~ Rumi,

68:Their rising all at once was as the sound Of thunder heard remote. ~ John Milton,

69:Todays the day gonna grab my trombone and blow" Thunder on the Mountain ~ Bob Dylan,

70:Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder. ~ Rumi,

71:Thoughts on his own death, like the distant roll of thunder at a picnic. ~ W H Auden,

72:Breakers. Ian was the president of the Miami Thunder. Half brothers. ~ Carly Phillips,

73:Hail brother, the distant thunder is nothing but hearts beating as one. ~ Patti Smith,

74:Rais your words not your voice ,it is rain that grows flowers , not thunder.☔️ ~ Rumi,

75:You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms. ~ Anna Akhmatova,

76:Above the thunder clash of an angry sky, the Tide Summoner rang out. ~ Catherine Doyle,

77:The thunder tiger looked at her like an avalanche looks at a butterfly. ~ Jay Kristoff,

78:(Oklahoma Thunder center Kendrick) Perkins doesn't like other NBA players. ~ Doc Rivers,

79:When shall we three meet again In thunder, lightning, or in rain? ~ William Shakespeare,

80:He says NO! In thunder; but the Devil himself cannot make him say yes. ~ Herman Melville,

81:They say marriages are made in Heaven. But so is thunder and lightning. ~ Clint Eastwood,

82:When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain? ~ William Shakespeare,

83:You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: "she wanted storms. ~ Anna Akhmatova,

84:Get the hell down here!” the bride shouted. “You’re stealing my thunder. ~ Debra Anastasia,

85:When shall we three meet again In thunder, lightning, or in rain? ~ William Shakespeare,

86:You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms... ~ Anna Akhmatova,

87:She will rise. With a spine of steel and a roar like thunder, she will rise. ~ Nicole Lyons,

88:there may be thunder in Europe but it is in America the lightning will fall ~ Ambrose Bierce,

89:Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the work. ~ Mark Twain,

90:May we be thunder in our doctrine and lighten in out conversations. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

91:No one expected the thunder That came to silence Such beautiful lightning. ~ F bio Moon,

92:Speed of lightning! Roar of thunder! Fighting all who rob or plunder! Underdog! ~ Jim Butcher,

93:They say all marriages are made in heaven, but so are thunder and lightning. ~ Clint Eastwood,

94:"Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder." ~ Jalaluddin Rumi^,

95:So fell Lord Perth," he said, "and the countryside did shake with that thunder. ~ Stephen King,

96:The noise from good toast should reverberate in the head like the thunder of July. ~ E V Lucas,

97:No struggle, no success. The stronger the thunder, the heavier the rainfall ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

98:You put those goddamn pants back on this instant,” I thunder, taking a step forward. ~ Sara Ney,

99:I want to go to Thunder from Down Under.” She wiggles her eyebrows up and down. “I ~ Jacob Chance,

100:Volcano of sweetness, thunder of honeycombs, vast love, vast death, vast fire. ~ Miguel Hern ndez,

101:No need to steal someone’s thunder, with Cosmic Ordering you can make your own. ~ Stephen Richards,

102:But that's what love is like when it's fresh and new. It's fire and thunder and heat. ~ Carrie Ryan,

103:Lightning streaks like gunfire through the clouds, volleys of thunder shake the air. ~ Edward Abbey,

104:You are like an autumn cloud, Bhoorisravas, full of thunder but never bringing rain. ~ Ramesh Menon,

105:You thunder and lightning too much; the reader ceases to get under the bed, by and by. ~ Mark Twain,

106:I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me. ~ John Keats,

107:As she reached the landing, the thunder came. The whole house seemed to shake with it. ~ Robert Bloch,

108:She could hear the rattle of hooves on stone evolve into a thunder of pursuit. ~ Cinda Williams Chima,

109:Thunder sounded again, low and rumbling like the growl of some predatory beast. Hannah ~ Joanne Fluke,

110:You will make things right. When the time comes, I know you will...." -Storm to Thunder ~ Erin Hunter,

111:God was grumbling his thunder and playing the zig-zag lightning thru his fingers. ~ Zora Neale Hurston,

112:I should not have ventured out that night; for the taint of thunder was in the clouds, ~ H P Lovecraft,

113:If I accept the sunshine and warmth, then I must also accept the thunder and lightning. ~ Khalil Gibran,

114:Love burns hotter than justice, and its roar is thunder. Beside love, even wrath whispers. ~ N D Wilson,

115:Thunder Road' knows who I am and what I feel, and that is one of the consolations of art. ~ Nick Hornby,

116:When Maester Aemon heard him sing, he said his voice was honey poured over thunder. ~ George R R Martin,

117:Even as a raw country boy, he allowed himself no oath stronger than “Thunder and Lightning ~ Ron Chernow,

118:How would you rather die?" she snapped. "Hiding under your bed or riding Thunder Mountain? ~ Rick Yancey,

119:Sooner or later, every last echo fades. Even the loudest thunder in the deepest valley. ~ Brian K Vaughan,

120:Then he drew the blade, Firebos. As it cleared the scabbard, the sky rumbled with thunder. ~ Jeff Wheeler,

121:I’m not trying to steal your thunder, but I feel like I’m the one who just woke up.”       ~ Stephanie Bond,

122:It was no joy waking up after a dream about that man. He left a taste of thunder in my mouth. ~ Chaim Potok,

123:For tolls too briefly the sounds of mercy... In fear we ponder the use of thunder for peace ~ Shawn Phillips,

124:God only exhibits his thunder and lightning at intervals, and so they always command attention. ~ Mark Twain,

125:I AM THE GOD OF STORMS! I BRING THE THUNDER! I BRING THE LIGHTNING! STOOOP RAINING ON ME! ~ Tui T Sutherland,

126:There was a crack of thunder so loud I was convinced I’d been struck by lightning for lying. ~ Connie Willis,

127:Thunder on my right hand. Lightning in my left hand. Fire behind me. Frost in front of me. ~ Terry Pratchett,

128:A faint clap of thunder Clouded skies, Perhaps rain comes Will you stay here with me? ~ Makoto Shinkai,

129:One can see plainly that there is thunder brooding in his head, but he refuses to speak to them. ~ Andr Brink,

130:Startled pigeons filled the old, shadowy rooms and crumbling hallways with their soft thunder. ~ Stephen King,

131:A faint clap of thunder Even if the rain comes not, I will stay here, together with you ~ Makoto Shinkai,

132:O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world. ~ William Shakespeare,

133:8A faint clap of thunder Even if the rain comes not, I will stay here, together with you ~ Makoto Shinkai,

134:Il bacio sta all'amore come il lampo al tuono. The kiss is to love what lightning is to thunder. ~ Bethany Kris,

135:I see the crown dripping blood. A storm without thunder. Shadow twisting on a bed of flames. ~ Victoria Aveyard,

136:I was a row of dots flowing randomly through the Universe. Have you met Thor? He makes thunder. ~ Douglas Adams,

137:Let the sky rain potatoes," said a musing voice. "Let it thunder to the tune of Greensleeves. ~ Cassandra Clare,

138:We're like lightning and thunder, inherently different but alike enough to share the same sky. ~ Krista Ritchie,

139:God of Thunder made a very small rain shower in the corner of the kitchen floor. Keep an eye on him. ~ Lois Lowry,

140:He flung away his rubber-ball nose, revealed a man that would have awed Thor, the god of thunder. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

141:MT @PardueSuzanne:Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder. ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,

142:see the sun and moon is no sign of sharp sight; to hear the noise of thunder is no sign of a quick ear. ~ Sun Tzu,

143:Let the thunder of a hundred cannon remind you three times daily to resist the force of habit. ~ S ren Kierkegaard,

144:how small a whisper do we hear of him! But the thunder of his power who can understand?” (Job 26:14; ~ Wayne Grudem,

145:The window had gone a clear lit purple, dusk that looked like thunder. Fine clouds shifted, restless. ~ Tana French,

146:He was thunder and lightning and rain, and she was the earth and flowers that drank up the storm. ~ Sabrina Jeffries,

147:In the evenings there's been thunder, a distant bumping and stumbling, like God on a sullen binge. ~ Margaret Atwood,

148:Thunder Road' knows who I am and what I feel, and that, in the end, is one of the consolations of art. ~ Nick Hornby,

149:He claimed that nearby gun thunder cleared the mind - but most everybody else agreed it made you daft. ~ Vernor Vinge,

150:the thunder and bombast of what passes for news programming today--Motto: All terror, all the time ~ J Maarten Troost,

151:When I'm manic, I'm so awake and alert, that my eyelashes fluttering on the pillow sound like thunder. ~ Andy Behrman,

152:So fell Lord Perth,” murmured Roland. “And the countryside did shake with that thunder,” Jake finished. ~ Stephen King,

153:Music and thunder are the rhythmic chords Of one majestic harp. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Plays and Stories, Act I,

154:For you, I’ll stop the rain from falling and the thunder from cracking and the wind from fucking blowing. And ~ L J Shen,

155:Holy thunder, woman, do you have any idea just how hard it is not to kiss the daylights out of you?” She ~ Julie Lessman,

156:How would you rather die?” she snapped. “Hiding under your bed or riding Thunder Mountain?” Good Question. ~ Rick Yancey,

157:The sound of 'gentle stillness' after all the thunder and wind have passed will the ultimate Word from God. ~ Jim Elliot,

158:Yet we are none of us so much awake, as we should be; a few thunder-claps would do us all good, ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

159:JASON WOKE TO THE SOUND OF THUNDER. Then he remembered where he was. It was always thundering in Cabin One. ~ Rick Riordan,

160:Nobody threatens my family and lives.” The dragon’s deep voice rolled over the waves like thunder. “Nobody. ~ Thea Harrison,

161:Thunder and blood and night must usurp our parts, to complete and make up the catastrophe of this great piece. ~ E R Eddison,

162:Like the bright, cool dawn after a night of prison and of thunder, Man can taste that freedom sought so long. ~ L Ron Hubbard,

163:Move like a beam of light: fly like lightning, strike like thunder, whirl in circles around a stable center ~ Morihei Ueshiba,

164:Silence is the root of everything. If you spiral into its void a hundred voices will thunder messages you long to hear. ~ Rumi,

165:The same battle in the clouds will be known to the deaf only as lightning and to the blind only as thunder. ~ George Santayana,

166:„Do not kneel,” said Claire Jurat in a voice like thunder, like earths breaking and stars forming. „No more gods. ~ Kij Johnson,

167:One drunk shepherd, two drunk shepherd, three drunk shepherd,’ I counted, and thunder rolled. Three miles away. ~ Karen Perkins,

168:Let the warriors clamor after gods of blood and thunder; love is hard, harder than steel and thrice as cruel. ~ Jacqueline Carey,

169:You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all of those things, and I loved you. ~ Penelope Douglas,

170:Before what?” Quiet Rain cut her off. Her old ears were as sharp as Thunder’s. “Who’s out there, planning my death? ~ Erin Hunter,

171:Far away, through the gash that led the way into the mountains, he heard the thick mouth of the perpetual thunder. ~ Stephen King,

172:Let the warriors clamor after gods of blood and thunder; love is hard, harder than steel and thrice as cruel. ~ Jacqueline Carey,

173:Some said the thunder called the lurking fear out of its habitation, while others said the thunder was its voice. ~ H P Lovecraft,

174:The sky is now indelible ink, The branches reft asunder; But you and I we do not shrink; We love the lovely thunder. ~ Ogden Nash,

175:With lightning, you're never really sure if that's what it was; it's just a flash. Thunder, you know. You feel it. ~ Sara Barnard,

176:[A]s if life were a thunder-storm wherein you can see by a flash the horizon, and then cannot see your hand. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

177:See? It’s a menace. We may have escaped a thunder hawk, but ultimately, we will perish . . . killed by my hair. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

178:We are animal in our blood and in our skin. We were not born for pavements and escalators but for thunder and mud. ~ Jay Griffiths,

179:They were not the Thunder Cats in ancient Egypt, they were rather the Stars' Lightening Cats against the Sun cult. ~ Ibrahim Ibrahim,

180:A Baby Sermon- The lighting and thunder, they go and they come: But the stars and the stillness are always at home ~ George MacDonald,

181:It’s better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes. ~ Truman Capote,

182:Softer than the flower, where kindness is concerned; stronger than the thunder, where principles are at stake. ~ Paramahansa Yogananda,

183:Did you ever see anybody so disgusting: said lightning to thunder, "never," growled thunder, "let's give him the works. ~ William Steig,

184:It was a human storm, composed of a thunder of cries, and a hail of sweetmeats, flowers, eggs, oranges, and nosegays. ~ Alexandre Dumas,

185:On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder. ~ John Milton,

186:To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder, In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick, cross lightning. ~ William Shakespeare,

187:A Baby Sermon- The lighting and thunder, they go and they come: But the stars and the stillness are always at home ~ George MacDonald,

188:On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer; China 'crost the Bay! ~ Rudyard Kipling,

189:When I read Shakespeare I am struck with wonder that such trivial people should muse and thunder in such lovely language. ~ D H Lawrence,

190:When it comes to romance, I'm always behind you. I am slower. It's like you are the lightening and I am the thunder. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,

191:You can't stop the thunder. You just have to let it roll over you. And then when it's done, you get up and keep going. ~ Barbara Freethy,

192:and the crash of the thunder, and the booming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion even louder than before. ~ Bram Stoker,

193:Girls like her were born in a storm. They have lightning in their souls. Thunder in their hearts. And chaos in their bones. ~ Nikita Gill,

194:Whoever waited outside was impatient – thunder rang imperiously through the room even as the old man reached for the bar. ~ Steven Erikson,

195:Fiery the Angels rose, and as they rose deep thunder roll’d Around their shores, indignant burning with the fires of Orc… ~ William Blake,

196:Along the coast the sea roars, and inland the mountains roar – the roaring at the center, like a distant clap of thunder. ~ Yasunari Kawabata,

197:History is only the pattern of silken slippers descending the stairs to the thunder of hobnailed boots climbing upward from below. ~ Voltaire,

198:In the fields with which we are concerned, knowledge comes only in flashes. The text is the thunder rolling long afterward. ~ Walter Benjamin,

199:Softer than the flower, where kindness is concerned; stronger than the thunder, where principles are at stake.” There ~ Paramahansa Yogananda,

200:I’ll be your handmaid, Thor,” I said. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal your thunder. You’ll make a gorgeous bride.” Thor growled. ~ Joanne M Harris,

201:We have very beautiful bad weather here at present - rain, wind, thunder - but with splendid effects; that's why I like it. ~ Vincent Van Gogh,

202:He put his fist against his chest. “Burn, Maddygirl,” he said. Then he turned and left her in the flickering gloom and thunder. ~ Laura Kinsale,

203:I like your custom 1911,” the man said, glancing at Pendergast’s weapon. “Les Baer Thunder Ranch Special? Nice-looking piece. ~ Douglas Preston,

204:Laughing like children, living like lovers, rolling like thunder, under the covers, and I guess that's why they call it the blues. ~ Elton John,

205:You are really angry with me for not having appeared to you in a red glow, with thunder and lightning, with scorched wings ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

206:In the economy of Heaven, God does not send thunder if a still, small voice is enough, or a prophet if a priest can do the job. ~ Neal A Maxwell,

207:Nay, father. Some of us have been killing giants today and aren't in the mood to have a tea party. - Thor, God of Thunder ~ Matt Fraction,

208:The loss of fortune to a true man is but the trumpet challenge to renewed exertion, not the thunder stroke of destruction. ~ Edwin Hubbel Chapin,

209:How sublime to look down on the workhouse of nature, to see her clouds, hail, snow, rain, thunder, all fabricated at our feet! ~ Thomas Jefferson,

210:It is fascinating to watch legislators turn away from their usual corporate grips when they hear the growing thunder of the people. ~ Ralph Nader,

211:Gimme eat, I said,” he ordered loudly in harsh tones that rumbled ominously through the silent tent like claps of distant thunder. ~ Joseph Heller,

212:The big, shoe-thumping fellow continues as a dark thunderhead to threaten all unrepentant non-Communists with hail and thunder. ~ Dag Hammarskjold,

213:They were untamed, like thunder and lightning in a glass jar. You just knew, sooner or later, the jar would shatter into pieces. ~ Alyxandra Harvey,

214:Dangerous, therefore, is it to take shelter under a tree, during a thunder-gust. It has been fatal to many, both men and beasts. ~ Benjamin Franklin,

215:You can try to steal the thunder all you want, it just reminds people I'm the lightning. You rumble in the distance. I light up the sky. ~ Dane Cook,

216:Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?...He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage... ~ Robert Olmstead,

217:In the fields with which we are concerned, knowledge comes only in flashes. The text is the thunder rolling long afterward. ~ Walter Benjamin,

218:Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won ~ William Shakespeare,

219:Beware the wooden horse, Agamemnon King, Conqueror, for it will roar to the skies on wings of thunder and herald the death of nations. ~ David Gemmell,

220:I see the stars. I hear the rolling thunder, thy power throughout the universe displayed. Then sings my soul, my Savior, God, to thee. ~ Reba McEntire,

221:it's better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear. ~ Anonymous,

222:The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps... so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in. ~ Dylan Thomas,

223:True confidence means you’re prepared to work hard enough and smart enough to make your own thunder. You don’t need someone else’s. ~ Lisa Renee Jones,

224:You must be swift as the wind, dense as the forest, rapacious as fire, steadfast like a mountain, mysterious as night and mighty as thunder. ~ Sun Tzu,

225:I remember thinking the roof would blow from the thunder in our hands that grief was a room filled with hungry desperate light. ~ Jandy Nelson,

226:My master used to say, sometimes a whisper is all that is required to calm a storm, but when words fail, sometimes you need the thunder. ~ Julie Kagawa,

227:The music was thunder and joy. Lightning bolts of happiness and praise, foot-stomping, dance-shouting, good-feeling singing from the soul. ~ Etta James,

228:She was the lightning, he was the thunder. Together they were a force of nature itself, so beautiful, yet full of unpardonable destruction. ~ K F Breene,

229:And here the fell attorney prowls for prey; Here falling houses thunder on your head, And here a female atheist talks you dead.    While ~ Samuel Johnson,

230:Do we say to the wind, do you wish not to blow? Do we say to the thunder, would you rather be silent? No. We never think of these things. ~ Amanda Grange,

231:Yesterday I got a call from the outside world but I said no in thunder. I was a dog on a short chain and now there’s no chain. ~ Jim Harrison,

232:Lightning and thunder need time, the light of the stars needs time, deeds need time, even after they are done, to be seen and heard. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

233:...no doubt much will be said elsewhere by the armies of bigotry and punditry. Let them volley and thunder. I'll speak of bookish things. ~ Salman Rushdie,

234:I have three hooves in the pasture and one already in the grave, but I have a few things more to tell before I get to the smoke and thunder. ~ Mark Helprin,

235:Lightning flashed around the island; thunder played its favorite game of scaring the crap out of all the shivering mortals on the earth below. ~ Pat Conroy,

236:Lightning Tail got his name because he’s always hanging around with Thunder,” Gray Wing explained. “They’re our own little storm in the making! ~ Anonymous,

237:Pain. I seem to have an affection, a kind of sweettooth for it. Bolts of lightning, little rivulets of thunder. And I the eye of the storm. ~ Toni Morrison,

238:I once stirred thunder in the skies, And now, unlike the days of yore - Just tears in a drunken poet’s eyes And laughter - from some whore. ~ Alexander Blok,

239:It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. ~ Frederick Douglass,

240:The innocence of virgins is like milk which turns when exposed to a clap of thunder, to a tart smell, to a hot day, to the merest nothing. ~ Honore de Balzac,

241:The thunderbolt without the reverberations of thunder would frighten man but little, though the danger lies in the lightning, not in the noise. ~ Jules Verne,

242:THUNDER BAY, Ontario — The trip to pick up a load of iron ore powder in Conneaut, Ohio, was supposed to take four days by way of the Great Lakes. ~ Anonymous,

243:A basso sings, and a soprano answers him. Then there is thunder in a clear blue sky, And, from the earth, a sigh: “This song is finished. ~ Kenneth Koch,

244:I would kiss you in the middle of the ocean during a lightning storm cuz I'd rather be left for dead than wondering what thunder sounds like. ~ Andrea Gibson,

245:May I be awoken by the thunder of Zeus & touched by his lighting. It only need strike once. Once is enough to ignite the soul with purpose. ~ Truth Devour,

246:THE ROAR OF THE draccus was like a trumpet, if you can imagine a trumpet big as a house, and made of stone, and thunder, and molten lead. I ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

247:Does it matter whether you hate yourself? At least love your eyes that can see, your mind that can hear the music, the thunder of the wings. ~ Robinson Jeffers,

248:People talk of life’s storms as if they are universal experiences. But they’re not. Some people hear thunder while others touch lightning. ~ Richard Paul Evans,

249:The winds shook off in unison and yipped beneath the gleaming stars. She gave him her lips. They kissed. And she was in love with the thunder. ~ Ali Shaw,

250:water pelts his fragile frame as his dark hair expels liquid like a drenched sponge. A flash of lightning and a clash of thunder echo through ~ Jonathan Sturak,

251:We rode on the winds of the rising storm, We ran to the sounds of the thunder. We danced among the lightning bolts, and tore the world asunder. ~ Robert Jordan,

252:I pushed down on the firing lever with both thumbs and Null Spot was instantly transformed from frightened pants-pisser into fiery god of thunder. ~ Bobby Adair,

253:Now and then there comes a crash of thunder in a storm, and we look up with amazement when he sets the heavens on a blaze with his lightning. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

254:Under this window in stormy weather I marry this man and woman together; Let none but Him who rules the thunder Put this man and woman asunder. ~ Jonathan Swift,

255:Be the kind of people that have enough passion to change the world. If we let ourselves be fire, thunder, or lightning, we could alter everything. ~ Erin Gruwell,

256:For herself, she wanted sleet and ice, howling winds, thunder to shake the very stones of the Red Keep. She wanted a storm to match her rage. ~ George R R Martin,

257:The city was spread out in the soft darkness, calm after the big thunder and hail storm, still moist and warm like a woman very satisfied in love. ~ Miriam Toews,

258:What is that curling flower of wonder As white as snow, as red as blood? When Death goes by in flame and thunder And rips the beauty from the bud. ~ Tim Pat Coogan,

259:Olivia: How does he love me? Viola: With adoration, with fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. ~ William Shakespeare,

260:Love is like moonlight or thunder, or rain on a tin roof in the middle of the night; it is one of those things in life that is truly worth knowing. ~ Sonya Hartnett,

261:shut the door against the rain, the thunder, the storm. Well, maybe not the last. That I’ve invited into my house and stands squarely in my foyer. ~ Magda Alexander,

262:The years thunder by, The dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed. ~ Sterling Hayden,

263:When ya gotta goNow we know what we are here for. We are not here to love fear and serve any old bearded but invisible thunder god. We are here to go. ~ Brion Gysin,

264:And then like thunder broke the frost, The chill wall fell, and morrowless Immortal maid and man embraced, Their light and shadow mingling. ~ Alison Croggon,

265:If her father was Thunder, then George was Smoke - and how could you argue with someone who began to disappear as soon as you opened your mouth? ~ Nell Freudenberger,

266:Strong and healthy, who thinks of sickness until it strikes like lightning? Preoccupied with the world, who thinks of death, until it arrives like thunder? ~ Milarepa,

267:But unlike thunder, this didn’t stop. It went on and on, machine-gun style, as if Zeus had loaded his bolts into an M60 with an inexhaustible ammo crate. ~ Mike Mullin,

268:I'm more focused on the positives of why I'm here. I'll be able to address those things in due time. Right now it's about the Thunder and Oklahoma City. ~ Derek Fisher,

269:Stronger than thunder's winged force All-powerful gold can speed its course; Through watchful guards its passage make, And loves through solid walls to break. ~ Horace,

270:All that breaks must be discarded even as the thunder of faith returns ever fading echoes. - Prelude to Anomandaris Fisher ~ Steven Erikson,

271:Phillip Harrison was the production designer, though, I think he's uncredited. He's done most of my films like Blue Thunder. Lots and lots over the years. ~ John Badham,

272:The air is cold and dusk has descended. In the distance lightning flickers and a far away rumble of thunder awakens my thoughts and makes me remember. ~ Donna Lynn Hope,

273:We rode on the winds of the rising storm, We ran to the sounds of the thunder. We danced among the lightning bolts, and tore the world asunder. ~ Robert Jordan,

274:To lift an autumn hair is no sign of great strength; to see the sun and moon is no sign of sharp sight; to hear the noise of thunder is no sign of a quick ear. ~ Sun Tzu,

275:Put away the fear of death, and however much thunder and lightning you have to face, you will find the mind capable of remaining calm and composed regardless. ~ Epictetus,

276:She loved to stand in the produce section when the sound of thunder came over the speakers, followed by the mist that sprayed the lettuce and parsley. She ~ Anne Hillerman,

277:For now, the sky is beautiful and clear, but you can't tell by how things look. Maybe the thunder will roar, the rain will fall, and the trains will stop. ~ Haruki Murakami,

278:God is a God of galaxies, of storms, of roaring seas and boiling thunder, but He is also the God of bread baking, of a child’s smile, of dust motes in the sun. ~ N D Wilson,

279:The harmony of a concert, to which you listen with delight, must have on certain classes of minute animals the effect of terrible thunder; perhaps it kills them. ~ Voltaire,

280:All things around, convulsed with violent thunder, seem to tremble, and the mighty walls of the capacious world appear at once to have started and burst asunder. ~ Lucretius,

281:Grace and gratitude belong together like heaven and earth. Gratitude evokes grace like the voice and echo. Gratitude follows grace as thunder follows lightning. ~ Karl Barth,

282:rained for three days. Thunder rumbled like cannon fire, lightning cracked and spit in the darkness. Then, when the storm’s fury had weakened, the horizon lay ~ Lisa Bingham,

283:I dream of an Heir who shall be a Dragon-Whisperer, a Swordfighter, a Man who talks with Monsters and who will harness the power of Thor's thunder itself... ~ Cressida Cowell,

284:A shard of lightning split the sky, then seconds later thunder came, rolling soft and low. Beth turned her eyes toward his. “God just took our picture. ~ Ruchama King Feuerman,

285:As Socrates said when his wife first railed at him, and next threw a vessel of foul water upon him, "I thought when I heard the thunder, there would come rain ~ Richard Baxter,

286:Lightning and thunder require time, the light of the stars requires time, deeds require time even after they are done, before they can be seen and heard. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

287:Well, what tongue does the wind talk? What nationality is a storm? What country do rains come from? What color is lightning? Where does thunder go when it dies? ~ Ray Bradbury,

288:I have not wasted my life trifling with literary fools in taverns, as Johnson did, when he should have been shaking England with the thunder of his spirit ~ George Bernard Shaw,

289:To honor Thor, Vikings often wore necklaces with little hammers on them. The word Thursday comes from Thor’s name. And guess what? It means “thunder’s day”! ~ Mary Pope Osborne,

290:Whisper to the flashing water your real name, write your signature in the sand, and shout your identity to the sky until it answers to you in thunder. ~ Christopher John Farley,

291:The English play hockey in any weather. Thunder, lightening, plague of locusts...nothing can stop the hockey. Do not fight the hockey, for the hockey will win. ~ Maureen Johnson,

292:The English play hockey in any weather. Thunder, lightning, plague of locusts... nothing can stop the hockey. Do not fight the hockey, for the hockey will win. ~ Maureen Johnson,

293:Why are you so afraid of silence, silence is the root of everything. If you spiral into its void, a hundred voices will thunder messages you long to hear ~ Rumi,

294:All this time I’ve been searching for her in the wrong places—in the rain, and in thunder, and lightning. And all this time . . . there she is, hiding in rainbows. ~ Leylah Attar,

295:Roll of thunder hear my cry   Over the water bye and bye   Ole man comin’ down the line   Whip in hand to beat me down But I ain’t gonna let him Turn me ’round ~ Mildred D Taylor,

296:You are an illuminating anchor Of leagues to infinite number Crashing waves and breaking thunder Tiding the ebb and flows of hunger ((Bella Luna)) ~ Jason Mraz,

297:Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping, Of February, in sobs and ink, Write poems, while the slush in thunder Is burning in the black of spring. ~ Boris Pasternak,

298:If you have attained something, this is the surest proof that you have gone astray. Therefore, not to have is to have, silence is thunder, ignorance is enlightenment. ~ D T Suzuki,

299:I like storms. I like thunder and lightning. What I do during a storm is shag my girlfriend and pretend that we're taking part in the conception of the Antichrist. ~ Frankie Boyle,

300:I want to affect people like a clap of thunder, to inflame their minds with the breadth of my vision, the strength of my conviction and the power of my expression. ~ Rosa Luxemburg,

301:No struggle, no success! The strongest thunder strikes often bring the heaviest rainfall! The weight of your fulfillment depends on how wide you cast your nets! ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

302:The grace of God does not come with a roll of thunder. It is a small, growing and steady light. It arrives as the dawn comes, slowly and truly, each day a new birth. ~ James Runcie,

303:Through endless time God's greatest gift is continuously given in silence. But whenmankind becomes completely deaf to the thunder of His Silence God incarnates as Man. ~ Meher Baba,

304:Man’s wants remain unsatisfied till death. Then, when his soul is naked, is he one With the man in the wind, and the west moon, With the harmonious thunder of the sun ~ Dylan Thomas,

305:All this time I’ve been searching for her in the wrong places—in the rain, and in thunder, and lightning. And all this time . . . there she is, hiding in rainbows.” We ~ Leylah Attar,

306:It stood calm against the suburban storm raging around it. The thunder screamed across the sky; it slapped the clouds into a heated turmoil that flew towards the south. ~ J D Stroube,

307:He fitted the Vedic definition of a man of God: “Softer than the flower, where kindness is concerned; stronger than the thunder, where principles are at stake. ~ Paramahansa Yogananda,

308:What became known in Russia as ‘pogroms’ – literally ‘after thunder’ – had been a recurrent feature of life in Western and Central Europe from medieval times onwards. ~ Niall Ferguson,

309:There was a little storm cloud over just my head and it was pissing rain and thunder and I knew to the bottom of my soul that there was only one woman who could save me. ~ Blake Austin,

310:The city waits for thunder's echo, for a wall of heat that burns Lahore with the energy of a thousand summers, a million partitions, a billion atomic souls split in half. ~ Mohsin Hamid,

311:Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet deprecate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. ~ Frederick Douglass,

312:You're not happy to be getting married?" I ventured. He looked out the window: there was lightning and thunder but still no rain. He said: "I was fine the way I was. ~ Elena Ferrante,

313:History of the world is the biography of the great man. And I said: The great man always act like a thunder. He storms the skies, while others are waiting to be stormed. ~ Thomas Carlyle,

314:But Quintilius Rousse's sailors grinned in the saddle, saluting, and rode out in a thunder, horses trampling their own long shadows as they set their heads to the east. ~ Jacqueline Carey,

315:For once I didn’t ache for a companion. For once the phrase a woman with a hole in her heart didn’t thunder into my head. That phrase, it didn’t even live for me anymore. ~ Cheryl Strayed,

316:i have survived far too much to go quietly let a meteor take me call the thunder for backup my death will be grand the land will crack the sun will eat itself -the day i leave ~ Rupi Kaur,

317:I like storms. Thunder, torrential rain, puddles, wet shoes. When the clouds roll in, I get filled with this giddy expectation. Everything is more beautiful in the rain ~ Penelope Douglas,

318:Sometimes love wasn’t about the storm. All booming thunder and flashing lightening. Sometimes it was the quiet aftermath. Sweet breezes, warm sun, and a rainbow of hope. ~ Kimberly Hunter,

319:With thunder and heavenly fireworks must one speak to indolent and somnolent senses. But beauty's voice speaketh gently: it appealeth only to the most awakened souls ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

320: I like storms. Thunder, torrential rain, puddles, wet shoes. When the clouds roll in, I get filled with this giddy expectation. Everything is more beautiful in the rain ~ Penelope Douglas,

321:The way he looks at me- steady and silent, bold and bright - makes me feel as if the storm outside were trapped inside me, thunder and rain and light, rolling and crashing. ~ Jessica Khoury,

322:You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. ~ Anna Akhmatova,

323:Might the peasant expect the Almighty to stay the thunder storm, which clears the air of a nation from pestilence, lest the lightning bold should in its flash kill his cow? ~ Benjamin Butler,

324:But he didn’t know exactly where the worry was coming from. He just had a feeling. Like thunder in the sky. Only the thunder was in his stomach. There would be a storm. ~ Benjamin Alire S enz,

325:Man’s wants remain unsatisfied till death. Then, when his soul is naked, is he one With the man in the wind, and the west moon, With the harmonious thunder of the sun ~ Dylan Thomas,

326:The Norse God of Thunder looked at her awkwardly. He had to remove his great horned helmet because it was banging against the ceiling and leaving scratch marks in the plaster. ~ Douglas Adams,

327:Everyone says it's going to be Snapcase at the palace. He listens to the people." "Yeah, right," said Vimes. And I listen to the thunder. But I don't do anything about it. ~ Terry Pratchett,

328:None of the things in life - like love or faith - was arrived at by thinking; indeed, one could almost define the things that mattered as the ones that came as suddenly as thunder. ~ Pico Iyer,

329:Um, um, um. Stop that thunder! Plenty too much thunder up here. What's the use of thunder? Um, um, um. We don't want thunder; we want rum; give us a glass of rum. Um, um, um! ~ Herman Melville,

330:Another secret of the universe: Sometimes pain was like a storm that came out of nowhere. The clearest summer could end in a downpour. Could end in lightning and thunder. ~ Benjamin Alire Saenz,

331:Another secret of the universe: Sometimes pain was like a storm that came out of nowhere. The clearest summer could end in a downpour. Could end in lightning and thunder. ~ Benjamin Alire S enz,

332:At moments of wonder, it is easy to avoid small thinking, to entertain thoughts that span the universe, that capture both thunder and tinkle, thick and thin, the near and the far. ~ Yann Martel,

333:Winter hurled more wind and rain at the city than it ever had before. Clouds dashed about in all directions emptying their thunder, hail and rain. The horizon was choked in fog. ~ Ismail Kadare,

334:Good luck and believe me, dearest Doc - it's better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear. ~ Truman Capote,

335:The word ‘thunder’ in Norwegian – ‘Thor-don’ – means Thor’s roar. In Swedish, the word for thunder is ‘åska,’ originally ‘ås-aka,’ which means ‘god’s journey’ over the heavens. ~ Jostein Gaarder,

336:Truly competent Literary Detectives are as rare as truthful men, Mr. Tweed -- you can see her potential as clearly as I can. Frightened of someone stealing your thunder, perhaps? ~ Jasper Fforde,

337:But when he comes in thunder and lightning brandishing these things, and I show fear in response, in effect I have been brought face to face with my master, just like a runaway slave. ~ Epictetus,

338:There was a house at the foot of the tower, close to the thunder of the waves breaking against the cliffs, where love was more intense because it seemed like a shipwreck. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez,

339:There was a house at the foot of the tower, close to the thunder of the waves breaking against the cliffs, where love was more intense because it seemed like a shipwreck. ~ Gabriel Garcia Marquez,

340:What manner of men should ministers be? They should thunder in preaching, and lighten in conversation; they should be flaming in prayer, shining in life, and burning in spirit. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

341:I have always been the lover - never the beloved - and I have spent much of my life waiting for trains, planes, boats, footsteps, doorbells, letters, telephones, snow, rain, thunder. ~ John Cheever,

342:It's turning the thunder into grace, knowing sometimes the break in your heart is like the hole in the flute. Sometimes it's the place where the music comes through. ~ Andrea Gibson,

343:It would seem you are in need of assistance, sidhe-seer.” A musical baritone drifted through the window, otherworldly, sensuous, and punctuated by a forbidding growl of thunder. ~ Karen Marie Moning,

344:Rejoice and fear not for the waves that swell, The storms that thunder, winds that sweep; Always our Captain holds the rudder well, He does not sleep. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, To R.,

345:Is it not certain that the Creator yawns in earthquake and thunder and other popular displays, but toils in rounding the delicate spiral of a shell? -Yeats, The Trembling of the Veil ~ W B Yeats,

346:Other Terms for Bombs flatulence backdoor trumpets air biscuits morning thunder cutting the cheese barking spiders depth charges butt bongos wind beneath your wings laying an egg stink-tail ~ Bart King,

347:The deep rumbling of discontent that we hear today is the thunder of disinherited masses rising from dungeons of oppression to the bright hills of freedom in one majestic chorus ~ Martin Luther King Jr,

348:You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. ~ Anna Akhmatova,

349:A whole tree of lightning stood in the sky. She kept looking out the window, suffused with the warmth from the fire and with the pity and beauty and power of her death. The thunder rolled. ~ Eudora Welty,

350:Leaf was staring down into shadow, and Thunder followed his gaze. The land dropped away into a small ravine. Moonlight pooled at the bottom, lighting a clearing ringed by bracken and trees. ~ Erin Hunter,

351:When you beat a drum, you create NOW, when silence becomes a sound so enormous and alive it feels like you're breathing in the clouds and the sky, and your heart is the rain and the thunder. ~ Ruth Ozeki,

352:fear and courage are like thunder and lightning. They start out at the same time, it’s just that the fear always hits first. If we wait long enough, the courage we need will be along soon. ~ RaeAnne Thayne,

353:He wants a thunder tiger, Akihito." "Well, I want a woman who can touch her ears with her ankles, cook a decent meal and keep her opinions to herself. But they don't fucking exist either! ~ Jay Kristoff,

354:Is it not certain that the Creator yawns in earthquake and thunder and other popular displays, but toils in rounding the delicate spiral of a shell? -Yeats, The Trembling of the Veil ~ William Butler Yeats,

355:Thunder gods don't hide." The Russian shrugged. "I am not like Thor. I have Russian depth of character. And I like to help people, not hurt them. Usually I help with vodka. You want some? ~ Kevin Hearne,

356:Each day the storm clouds were opening like great purple flowers and pouring out their dark thunder. Each nightfall, the storm was laid down on their houses like a burden the day had carried. ~ Eudora Welty,

357:If you want to treat your book as a child, the finished book should be an adult, capable to stand on its own legs and able to weather the thunder. Not a baby that still needs to be defended. ~ Martyn V Halm,

358:I loved before I met him, a large, hulking, healthy Adam ... with a voice like the thunder of God — a singer, story-teller, lion and world-wanderer, a vagabond who will never stop. She ~ Linda Wagner Martin,

359:Will you stay with me ” she asked. Her voice was the thinnest whisper almost canceled out by a low groan of thunder.... Forever ” he whispered back. The sweet sound of his voice filled her up. ~ Lauren Kate,

360:wisdom comes from reasoned and informed democratic debate from opposing sides. This debate is often messy, unseemly, and always raucous, but out of the thunder and smoke emerges genuine insight. ~ Anonymous,

361:Let the warriors clamor after gods of blood and thunder; love is hard, harder than steel and thrice as cruel. It is as inexorable as the tides, and life and death alike follow in its wake. ~ Jacqueline Carey,

362:Sadness to me is the happiest time, When a shining city rises from the ruins of my drunken mind. Those times when I'm silent and still as the earth, The thunder of my roar is heard across the universe. ~ Rumi,

363:The most popular god was Thor, Odin’s son. Thor had great strength and controlled thunder, lightning, and giant storms. People pictured him as having a flaming red beard and a huge hammer. ~ Mary Pope Osborne,

364:Mind you, Thunder Bay has a lot of outskirts. It's actually two cities melded together, so in a sense it has twice as many outskirts as other places. It's understandable that we got lost.... ~ Paul Quarrington,

365:From what black wells of Acherontic fear or feeling, from what unplumbed gulfs of extra-cosmic consciousness or obscure, long-latent heredity, were those half-articulate thunder-croakings drawn? ~ H P Lovecraft,

366:I can't play piano like I used to either. I used to have bass rolling like thunder. I can't do that no more. But I ask the Lord, please forgive me for the stuff I done trying to make a nickel. ~ Pinetop Perkins,

367:i have survived far too much to go quietly let a meteor take me call the thunder for backup my death will be grand the land will crack the sun will eat itself - the day I leave ~ Rupi Kaur,

368:I have worked out with the Thunder, Lakers, Knicks, Grizzlies, Spurs, and a few others before the draft. I have worked out primarily against shorter and supposedly faster players in these workouts. ~ Jeremy Lin,

369:Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between, But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been. ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge,

370:I'd like my life to be like a Bruce Springsteen song. Just once. I know I'm not born to run, I know that Seven Sisters' Road is nothing like Thunder Road, but feelings can't be different, can they? ~ Nick Hornby,

371:I'll tell you, I've seen the lightning flash. I've heard the thunder roll. I felt sin-breakers dashing, trying to conquer my soul. But I heard the voice of Jesus saying still to fight on. ~ Martin Luther King Jr,

372:In the black night the wrath of storm swept by, The thunder crashed above her, the rain hissed, Its million footsteps pattered on the roof. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Parable of the Search for the Soul,

373:Until I came and saw the water falling, its lace legs and its womanly arms sheeting down, while something howled like thunder, over the rocks, all day and all night - unspooling. ~ Mary Oliver,

374:I remember every stone, every tree, the scent of heather... Even when the thunder growled in the distance, and the wind swept up the valley in fitful gusts, oh, it was beautiful, home sweet home. ~ Beatrix Potter,

375:...teach me how to hold a man the way thirst holds water. Let every river envy our mouths. Let every kiss hit the body like a season. Where apples thunder the earth with red hooves... ~ Ocean Vuong,

376:My mother described her reactions better than I ever could mine: she said she was "surprised with thunder" that her boy had come back, and that the happiness in her heart was "as deep as the sea". ~ Saroo Brierley,

377:Rain washed down the windshield, obscuring the world outside like an oil painting splattered with turpentine. Lightning cut a jagged gash across the sky, which healed with the sound of repeated thunder. ~ Joe Hart,

378:The storm had now definitely abated, and what thunder there was now grumbled over more distant hills, like a man saying 'And another thing...' twenty minutes after admitting he'd lost the argument. ~ Douglas Adams,

379:For some there is no music No lights No fire No untamed madness that breathes life There is work Anguish Frustration Rage Despair A dullness that rings like wooden thunder ~ Henry Rollins,

380:She said that Thunder and Lightning were two spirit brothers who lived in the heavens. Lightning was the quiet one who was bright and quick, while Thunder did nothing but growl and frighten people.” I ~ Dannika Dark,

381:The tiger's roar filled the cave with thunder. Mother Wolf shook herself clear of the cubs and sprang forward, her eyes, like two green moons in the darkness, facing the blazing eyes of Shere Khan. ~ Rudyard Kipling,

382:In four days, I experienced five seasons. It was thirty, it was sixty, it was ninety, then it was twelve! And on the last day, there was thunder, lightning, and snow - together! And I hadn't done drugs. ~ Lewis Black,

383:It is the greatest and the tallest of trees that the gods bring low with bolts and thunder. For the gods love to thwart whatever is greater than the rest. They do not suffer pride in anyone but themselves. ~ Herodotus,

384:Sadness to me is the happiest time, When a shining city rises from the ruins of my drunken mind. Those times when I'm silent and still as the earth, The thunder of my roar is heard across the universe. ~ Rumi,

385:...the church can thunder the truth that Jesus' name is to be lifted up, yet do so in such a way that people are manipulated, driven by guilt without pardon, power without mercy, conformity without grace. ~ D A Carson,

386:With his long hair as ragged as rain and as black as thunder, he would have looked quite at home upon a windswept moor, or lurking in some pitch-black alleyway, or perhaps in a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe. ~ Susanna Clarke,

387:Before an hour's out, I'll stove in your old block house like a rum puncheon. Laugh, by thunder. laugh! Before an hour's out, ye'll laugh upon the other side. Them that die'll be the lucky ones. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,

388:How does anyone ever know anything—the past is a fog that breathes out ghost after ghost, the present a freeway thunder run at 90 mph, which makes the future the ultimate black hole of futile speculation. ~ Ben Fountain,

389:I'm feeling anxious about tonight - half dread and half excitement - like when you hear thunder and know that any second you'll see lightning tearing across the sky, nipping at the clouds with its teeth. ~ Lauren Oliver,

390:Enthusiasm produces the most cruel disorders in human society; but its fury is like that of thunder and tempest, which exhaust themselves in a little time, and leave the air more calm and serene than before. ~ David Hume,

391:His soul is the color of a humid day, when there's just the thinnest layer of clouds hiding the sky. You know there's something behind there - it might be rain or sun or thunder, but you can't quite tell yet. ~ Amy Zhang,

392:We call that fire of the black thunder-cloud "electricity," and lecture learnedly about it, and grind the like of it out of glass and silk: but what is it? What made it? Whence comes it? Whither goes it? ~ Thomas Carlyle,

393:Woyzeck Yes, Captain, virtue! That I haven't figured out yet. I'm just a poor guy. The likes of us are wretched in this world and the next. If we ever got to heaven, we'd have to help make the thunder. ~ Georg B chner,

394:...fear and courage are like lightning and thunder; they both sart out at the same time, but the fear travels faster and arrives sooner. If we just wait a moment, the requisite courage will be along shortly. ~ Ralph Keyes,

395:What need I fear of thee? But yet I’ll make assurance double sure, And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder.”   —William Shakespeare ~ Joe Hart,

396:When I'm playful I use the meridians of longitude and parallels of latitude for a seine, and drag the Atlantic Ocean for whales. I scratch my head with the lightning and purr myself to sleep with the thunder. ~ Mark Twain,

397:instantly bringing the booming of thunder. Talis edged to the other side of the wall, close along the spikes and barbs. Another sudden crack of lightning and the explosion of thunder struck the guardhouse, ~ John Forrester,

398:Life is the fire that burns and the sun that gives light. Life is the wind and the rain and the thunder in the sky. Life is matter and is earth, what is and what is not, and what beyond is in Eternity. ~ Seneca the Younger,

399:When the thunder roars, do you not hear your Self? When the lightening cracks, do you not see your Self? When clouds float quietly across the sky, is this not your very own limitless Being, waving back at you? ~ Ken Wilber,

400:Against the windows the storm comes dashing, Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, The blue lightning flashes, The rapid hail clashes... The thunder is rumbling And crashing and crumbling. ~ James Russell Lowell,

401:All this time we sat without speaking. I was considering how to begin. It was twilight in the room, a black storm−cloud was coming over the sky, and there came again a rumble of thunder in the distance. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

402:A thunder rolling mid the hills of God, Tireless, severe is their tremendous Voice: Exceeding us, to exceed ourselves they call And bid us rise incessantly above. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Heavens of the Ideal,

403:It’s about focus. It’s about being you, but the you that people believe in. It’s about being the concentrated, magnified essence of you. It’s about becoming thunder, or the power of a running horse, or wisdom. ~ Neil Gaiman,

404:Think of Shakespeare and Melville and you think of thunder, lightning, wind. They all knew the joy of creating in large or small forms, on unlimited or restricted canvases. These are the children of the gods. ~ Ray Bradbury,

405:Why the Egyptian, Arabic, Abyssinian, Choctaw? Well, what tongue does the wind talk? What nationality is a storm? What country do rains come from? What color is lightning? Where does thunder goe when it dies? ~ Ray Bradbury,

406:A motorcyclist rode down the empty street, arms and legs rounded in an O, and came back up with the sound of thunder; his face displayed seriousness of a child who attributes the utmost importance to his howls ~ Robert Musil,

407:Lightning’s echo comes as thunder. And the city waits for thunder’s echo, for a wall of heat that burns Lahore with the energy of a thousand summers, a million partitions, a billion atomic souls split in half. ~ Mohsin Hamid,

408:O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world, And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, Which scorns a modern invocation. ~ William Shakespeare,

409:Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail the sky cracked its poems in naked wonder, that the clinging of the church bells blew far into the breeze, leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder ~ Bob Dylan,

410:All this time we sat without speaking. I was considering how to begin. It was twilight in the room, a black storm−cloud was coming over the sky, and there came again a rumble of thunder in the distance. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

411:Angry and choleric men are as ungrateful and unsociable as thunder and lightning, being in themselves all storm and tempest; but quiet and easy natures are like fair weather, welcome to all. ~ Edward Hyde 1st Earl of Clarendon,

412:THE ART OF PEACE is not easy. It is a fight to the finish, the slaying of evil desires and all falsehood within. On occasion the voice of peace resounds like thunder, jolting human beings out of their stupor. ~ Morihei Ueshiba,

413:remember that to use a thing is not to own it. And should you ever take a bride, listen closely to her questions. In them you may hear her true name like the thunder of a lost river, like the sighing of the sea. ~ Leigh Bardugo,

414:If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom, and deprecate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground, they want rain without thunder and lightning. ~ Frederick Douglass,

415:Jack looked surprised when she stumbled upon him, which was odd, because he was almost never caught off guard. As his mother once said about him, Jack could hear the thunder before the lightning bothered to strike. ~ Holly Black,

416:The rain pours down from the clouds,        and everyone benefits. 29 Who can understand the spreading of the clouds        and the thunder that rolls forth from heaven? 30 See how he spreads the lightning around him ~ Anonymous,

417:It was not the voice of God but only the thunder. That's not right, but it's how he remembers it. Not God but the thunder. Or is that only what he wants to believe? How many times has God been denied just that way? ~ Stephen King,

418:Done, Mr. Thunder,” Jocelyn said with a good deal of pleasure. “You now work for me.” She had to turn away quickly before she laughed aloud at the expression of utter disbelief that appeared on his handsome face. ~ Johanna Lindsey,

419:I see the crown dripping blood. A storm without thunder. Shadow twisting on a bed of flames. I see lakes flooding their shores, swallowing men whole. I see a man with one red eye, his coat blue, his gun smoking- ~ Victoria Aveyard,

420:The rain pelted down, drowning the soil and turning the terrain into a devastated expanse of mud. Lightning forked across the skies, augmented by explosions and flares. Thunder roared and machine guns screamed. I ~ Daniel O Malley,

421:It reminded him of the cacophony of an orchestra as it tuned its instruments: dissonance, suddenly resolving into harmony. It was the rumble, not of thunder, but its low, rolling precursor, trembling on the horizon. ~ Courtney Milan,

422:Yin and yang, male and female, strong and weak, rigid and tender, heaven and earth, light and darkness, thunder and lightning, cold and warmth, good and evil…the interplay of opposite principles constitutes the universe. ~ Confucius,

423:From somewhere in the distance, we heard a rolling crack of thunder. "He's coming," moaned one of the Inferni. "Oh, Saints, he's coming." "He'll kill us all," whispered Sergei. "If we're lucky," replied Zoya. ~ Leigh Bardugo,

424:He and I together was a terrible idea. We were both unstable, we were both shattered, and there was no getting around it. He was thunder, I was lightning, and we were seconds away from creating the perfect storm. ~ Brittainy C Cherry,

425:Sir 40:12 All bribery, and injustice shall be blotted out, and fidelity shall stand for ever. Sir 40:13 The riches of the unjust shall be dried up like a river, and shall pass away with a noise like a great thunder in rain. ~ Various,

426:The storm to end all storms is coming,” he had said, “and the only question is going to be who wields the lightning and the thunder.” Oppenheimer had always been prone to such melodramatic language. “It has to be us. ~ Robert Masello,

427:When I was young I lived a constant storm, Though now and then the brilliant suns shot through, So in my garden few red fruits were born, The rain and thunder had so much to do. - The Enemy ~ Charles Baudelaire,

428:All sounds, all voices have become Thy voice, Music and thunder and the cry of birds, Life’s babble of her sorrows and her joys, Cadence of human speech and murmured words, ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, The Divine Hearing,

429:The whispers in the morning of lovers sleeping tight are rolling like thunder now as I look in your eyes. I hold on to your body and feel each move you make, your voice is warm and tender, a love that I could not forsake. ~ Celine Dion,

430:Yin and yang, male and female, strong and weak, rigid and tender, heaven and earth, light and darkness, thunder and lightning, cold and warmth, good and evil...the interplay of opposite principles constitutes the universe. ~ Confucius,

431:Yellow can express happiness, and then again, pain. There is flame red, blood red, and rose red; there is silver blue, sky blue, and thunder blue; every color harbors its own soul, delighting or disgusting or stimulating me. ~ Emil Nolde,

432:When Byron's eyes were shut in death, We bow'd our head and held our breath. He taught us little; but our soul Had felt his like a thunder roll. . . . We watch'd the fount of fiery life Which serv'd for that Titanic life. ~ Matthew Arnold,

433:Marxism must abhor nothing so much as the possibility that it becomes congealed in its current form. It is at its best when butting heads in self-criticism, and in historical thunder and lightning, it retains its strength. ~ Rosa Luxemburg,

434:It is better to be small, colorful, sexy, careless, and peaceful, like the flowers, than large, conservative, repressed, fearful, and aggressive, like the thunder lizards; a lesson, by the way, that the Earth has yet to learn. ~ Tom Robbins,

435:Many a time since have I noticed, in persons of Ginevra Fanshawe's light, careless temperament, and fair, fragile style of beauty, an entire incapacity to endure: they seem to sour in adversity, like small beer in thunder. ~ Charlotte Bront,

436:Master of masters, O maker of heroes, Thunder the brave, Irresistible message: 'Life is worth living Through every grain of it From the foundations To the last edge Of the cornerstone, death. ~ William Ernest Henley,

437:Strength is not a roar of thunder in the heart. That is passion Strength is not a process of logic in the mind. That is reason. Strength is a soul-deep voice that whispers 'keep going' when we feel like giving up. ~ L R Knost,

438:[...]we are all as full of echoes as a rocky wood--echoes of the past, reflex echoes of the future, and echoes of the soil (these last reverberating through our filmiest dreams, like the sound of thunder in a blossoming orchard). ~ Mary Webb,

439:The thunder of the breakers was tremendous down here, bigger than the world. Like standing inside a thunderstorm. And if we were the last people on earth, so what? This would go on as long as there was a moon to pull the water. ~ Stephen King,

440:3The voice of the Eternal echoes over the great waters; God’s magnificence roars like thunder. The Eternal’s presence hovers over all the waters. 4His voice explodes in great power over the earth. His voice is both regal and grand. ~ Anonymous,

441:Why should we not recognize in the lightning, the thunder, and the storm wind, the approach of an overwhelming Power, and in the scent of flowers and the gently rustling zephyr the presence of a Being full of love? ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

442:He craved an idea, inspired yet concrete, that would show a clear path and change the world for the better, an idea as unmistakable to a child or an ignorant fool as lightning or a roll of thunder. He craved for something new. ~ Boris Pasternak,

443:He is born again! I feel him! The Dragon takes his first breath on the slope of Dragonmount! He is coming! He is coming! Light help us! Light help the world! He lies in the snow and cries like the thunder! He burns like the sun! ~ Robert Jordan,

444:she makes me wash, they make me comb all to thunder; she won't let me sleep in the woodshed... the widder [widow] eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she wakes up by a bell-everything's so awful reg'lar a body can't stand it ~ Mark Twain,

445:There are times when God sends thunder to stir us. There are times when God sends blessings to lure us. But then there are times when God sends nothing but silence as he honors us with the freedom to choose where we spend eternity. ~ Max Lucado,

446:But the time has come; the revelation has already occurred, and the guardian seers have seen the lightning strike the darkness we call reality. And now we sleep in the brief interval between the lightning and the thunder. ~ William Irwin Thompson,

447:It’s about becoming thunder, or the power of a running horse, or wisdom. You take all the belief, all the prayers, and they become a kind of certainty, something that lets you become bigger, cooler, more than human. You crystallize. ~ Neil Gaiman,

448:Bears, dragons, tempestuous on mountain and river, Startle the forest and make the heights tremble. Clouds darken beneath the darkness of rain, streams pale with a pallor of mist. The gods of Thunder and Lightning Shatter the whole range. ~ Li Bai,

449:Lightning is the spears hurled by the thunder giants when they fight,” it said gently. “Established meteorological fact. You can’t harness it.” “I know,” said Rincewind miserably. “That’s the flaw in the argument, of course.” The ~ Terry Pratchett,

450:Daddy said the world was dividing into two camps: runners and nesters. Runners headed for the hills—or Thunder Mountain. Nesters boarded up the windows, stocked up on the canned goods and ammunition, and kept the TV tuned to CNN 24/7. ~ Rick Yancey,

451:Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunder-storm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols. ~ Thomas Mann,

452:Unfast’ns: on a sudden op’n flie With impetuous recoile and jarring sound Th’ infernal dores, and on thir hinges great Harsh Thunder, that the lowest bottom shook Of Erebus. She op’nd, but to shut Excel’d her power; the Gates wide op’n ~ John Milton,

453:The skies she retained in memory were dramas of cloud and sea storm, or the electric sheen before summer thunder in the city, always belonging to the energies of sheer weather, of what was out there, air masses, water vapor, westerlies. ~ Don DeLillo,

454:from the poem Hum, Hum The resurrection of the morning. The mystery of the night. The hummingbird's wings. The excitement of thunder. The rainbow in the waterfall. Wild mustard, that rough blaze of the fields. ~ Mary Oliver,

455:The muffled thunder of dialogue comes through the walls, then a chorus of laughter. Then more thunder. Most of the laugh tracks on television were recorded in the early 1950s. These days, most of the people you hear laughing are dead. ~ Chuck Palahniuk,

456:This time when she picked up her paints, she didn’t think, she just painted. It was like opening the door onto a storm. The canvas was her doorway and the paint all the thunder and lightning, the wild pain-filled sky caught inside her. ~ Michelle Frost,

457:It is said that the gods play games with the lives of men. But what games, and why, and the identities of the actual pawns, and what the game is, and what the rules are—who knows? Best not to speculate. Thunder rolled… It rolled a six. ~ Terry Pratchett,

458:We saw the lightning and that was the guns and then we heard the thunder and that was the big guns; and then we heard the rain falling and that was the blood falling; and when we came to get in the crops, it was dead men that we reaped. ~ Harriet Tubman,

459:Armies of revolution crossed the time-field, The clouds’ unending march besieged the world, Tempests’ pronunciamentos claimed the sky And thunder drums announced the embattled gods. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Birth and Childhood of the Flame,

460:I’ve wrestled with alligators, I’ve tussled with a whale. I done handcuffed lightning And throw thunder in jail. You know I’m bad. just last week, I murdered a rock, Injured a stone, Hospitalized a brick. I’m so mean, I make medicine sick. ~ Muhammad Ali,

461:Thought can never capture the movement of life, it is much too slow. It is like lightning and thunder. They occur simultaneously, but sound, travelling slower than light, reaches you later, creating the illusion of two separate events. ~ U G Krishnamurti,

462:Gods?” said Xeno. “We don’t bother with gods. Huh. Relics of an outmoded belief system, gods.” There was a rumble of thunder from the clear evening sky. “Except for Blind Io the Thunder God,” Xeno went on, his tone hardly changing. ~ Terry Pratchett,

463:He should've let her drown. Tally Cruise had the most God-awful voice Michael had ever heard, and he'd heard some doozies in Asian karaoke bars. Fortunately the violence of the storm, and the thunder of the waves, drowned out most of it. ~ Cherry Adair,

464:The sky is changed,-and such a change! O night And storm and darkness! ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder. ~ Lord Byron,

465:Clear Sky’s shoulders drooped. “I just want us to be together, like we used to be. Fluttering Bird wants it too.” Thunder felt a surge of sympathy. Was his father still grieving for the young sister he’d lost? “What if you’re wrong?” “I’m not. ~ Erin Hunter,

466:I’m sure no one will notice a seven-foot, shirtless man who looks like the mascot for the Thunder from Down Under.” “I do not know what flatulence has to do with any of this, but I trust you’ll figure out how to disguise my brother. ~ Mimi Jean Pamfiloff,

467:Zurich in 1915,... While the thunder of the batteries rumbled in the distance, we pasted, we recited, we versified, we sang with all our soul. We searched for an elementary art that would, we thought, save mankind from the madness of these times. ~ Hans Arp,

468:He pulled her against his chest, letting her feel his heart thunder its rhythm. Kissing her hair he whispered, the desperation raw, "You are no dream...but flesh and blood. Tell me you are real...oh, please...be real." "Aye, I am real. ~ Deborah Macgillivray,

469:Enochian was the wail of dying stars, the whisper of galaxies winging through the void, the gurgle of primordial oceans, the crackle of a cooling planet, the thunder of creation. And beneath it all , a simmering undercurrent of malevolence. ~ Ian Tregillis,

470:Many demons are in woods, in waters, in wildernesses, and in dark poolly places ready to hurt and prejudice people; some are also in the thick black clouds, which cause hail, lightning and thunder, and poison the air, the pastures and grounds. ~ Martin Luther,

471:DIS ... DIS ... DIS ... it was a word it was a planet and the word thundered like a drum a drum the sound of its thunder surrounded and was a wasteland a planet of death a planet where living was dying and dying was very better than living DIS ~ Harry Harrison,

472:Mister Pierre was finally looking at the baby’s body. “A boy? Why aren’t you two lackwits seeing to my child?” There had been women’s voices in this room all these long hours. Mister Pierre’s booming was like sudden thunder during a soft rain. ~ Nalo Hopkinson,

473:Solitude is a human presumption. Every quiet step is thunder to beetle life underfoot, a tug of impalpable thread on the web pulling mate to mate and predator to prey, a beginning or an end. Every choice is a world made new for the chosen. ~ Barbara Kingsolver,

474:We can never have enough of nature. We must be refreshed by the sight of inexhaustible vigor, vast and titanic features, the sea-coast with its wrecks, the wilderness with its living and its decaying trees, the thunder-cloud, and the rain. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

475:I am afraid of Mr. Powell. I am more afraid of him than I have ever been of shadows or the thunder or when you look through the little bubble in the glass of the window in the upstairs hall and all of the out-of-doors stretches and twists its neck. ~ Davis Grubb,

476:Saints don’t heed warnings because they consider them irrelevant. Fools don’t heed them because they think the lightning dancing across the sky, the thunder rolling through the woods, are only there to enhance their lives in some mysterious way. ~ James Lee Burke,

477:They heard a distant rumbling, like thunder on the peaks, or mountains crumbling, or huge waves crashing to shore, and the earth shook with each rumble. “My husband is coming home,” said the giantess. “I hear his gentle footsteps in the distance. ~ Neil Gaiman,

478:For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts to welcome such glad-hearted visitants. ~ Herman Melville,

479:It is said that the gods play games with the lives of men. But what games, and why, and the identities of the actual pawns, and what the game is, and what the rules are - who knows? Best not to speculate. Thunder rolled... It rolled a six. ~ Terry Pratchett,

480:If Fairyland-Below is Fairyland's shadow, what is the shadow of Fairyland-Below? What's under the underworld?" Ell laughed like thunder rolling somewhere far off. "I'm afraid it's underworlds all the way down, my dearest, darling flying ace. ~ Catherynne M Valente,

481:Humor is hard to catch in a second language. Especially when you're as serious a young man as Giovanni. He said to me the other night, 'When you are ironic, I am always behind you. I am slower. It is like you are the lightning and I am the thunder. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,

482:O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain. ~ Mark Twain,

483:Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty’s self. There was a listening fear in her regard, As if calamity had but begun; As if the vanward clouds of evil days Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 40 Was with its stored thunder labouring up. ~ John Keats,

484:The silver gave way before its edge like string, and in a moment a few twisted fragments, shining on the floor, were all that was left. But as the chair broke, there came from it a bright flash, a sound like thunder, and (for one moment) a loathsome smell. ~ C S Lewis,

485:The things I feared were not in the sky, but in the nature and in the touch of humanity. The cruelty of children . . . the blindness of the unpitiful - these were my terrors. But not the crash of thunder overhead, not the bolts of fire from the clouds. ~ Ellen Glasgow,

486:By suggestion and example, I believe children can be helped to hear the many voices about them. Take Time to listen and talk about the voices of the earth and what they mean-the majestic voice of thunder, the winds, the sound of surf or flowing streams. ~ Rachel Carson,

487:Just in front of Janner, Nugget kept as close to the wall as possible, his tail between his legs. The ledge took them behind a rush of water, a passageway of thunder, spray, and stone. When they emerged, the stair descended more sharply into the mist. ~ Andrew Peterson,

488:This organ lacked what he considered the most basic of facilities, such as the Thunder pedal, a 128-foot Earthquake pipe and a complete keyboard of animal noises, but he was certain there was something exciting that could be done in the bass register. ~ Terry Pratchett,

489:a charming Estonian belief: “Thunder occurs when God, who is chasing the devil, catches and pulverizes him. Doors and windows are therefore shut during storms to deny the devil refuge in the house and prevent the latter from being struck by lightning. ~ Claude Lecouteux,

490:Have you heard of those thunder shirts for dogs to help them stay calm during loud storms? They should be made for people, to help us stay calm in situations when we have to listen to someone explain at great length why they are too busy to own a TV set. ~ Samantha Irby,

491:Bears, dragons, tempestuous on mountain and river, Startle the forest and make the heights tremble. Clouds darken beneath the darkness of rain, streams pale with a pallor of mist. The gods of Thunder and Lightning Shatter the whole range ~ Li Bai,

492:People were thicker than bees, in those narrow streets, and the men were dressed in all the outrageous, outlandish, idolatrous, extravagant, thunder-and-lightning costumes that ever a tailor with the delirium tremens and seven devils could conceive of. There ~ Mark Twain,

493:Thunder rolled…   It is said that the gods play games with the lives of men. But what games, and why, and the identities of the actual pawns, and what the game is, and what the rules are—who knows? Best not to speculate. Thunder rolled… It rolled a six. ~ Terry Pratchett,

494:When I was young, I thought it is thunder that kills people. But when I learnt physics in the high school, I discovered that it is rather the lightning that does the killing. The voice of the thunder itself is just a noise. The lightning is the poise! ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

495:For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts, to welcome such glad-hearted visitants . . . ~ Herman Melville,

496:The listener must be gripped and whether he likes it or not, drawn into the flight path of the sounds without special training being necessary. The sensual shock must be just as forceful as when one hears a clap of thunder or looks into a bottomless abyss ~ Iannis Xenakis,

497:...Good luck and Good work for the happy mountain raindrops, each one of them a high waterfall in itself, descending from the cliffs and hollows of the clouds to the cliffs and hollows of the rocks, out of the sky-thunder into the thunder of the falling rivers. ~ John Muir,

498:Rain pelted the huge windows. Thunder booms like cannon shots rattled the glass. The courtyard was a rain-lashed lake, reflecting the violent white cracks of lightning above. The wind shrieked between Slabhenge's tall towers like an army of furious ghosts. ~ Dan Gemeinhart,

499:She dreamed she was flying. She was much more graceful in the air than on the ground, where her feet always seemed to be tripping her up. But her peaceful dream was interrupted by the loud banging and crashing of thunder. She was no longer flying…but falling. ~ Chanda Hahn,

500:Teo had once claimed that human history began with a storm: the interval between lightning and thunder, between flash and rumble felt in the body's core, was primitive man's first experiences of time -- the awakening of consciousness, the birth of the gods. ~ Max Gladstone,

501:We saw the lightning and that was the guns; and then we heard the thunder and that was the big guns; and then we heard the rain falling and that was the blood falling; and when we came to get in the crops, it was dead men that we reaped. —Harriet Tubman Young ~ Jesmyn Ward,

502:Again the thunder clapped. Still Eva stood in the field. Maybe, she thought, a girl struck by lightning would split down the middle and become two girls, and then she'd have a friend. She held out her watch with its metal band, to call the lightning down. ~ Elizabeth Graver,

503:Children of illegal immigrants. Steal a piece of Obama’s thunder by enacting a law that would grant resident status to kids whose parents brought them here when they were youngsters. These children shouldn’t be punished for the sins of their mothers and fathers. ~ Anonymous,

504:Prayer For Lightning My corn is green with red tassels, I am praying to the lightning to ripen my corn, I am praying to the thunder which carries the lightning. Corn is sweet where lightning has fallen. I pray to the six-coloured clouds. ~ Amy Lowell,

505:I’ve wrestled with alligators, I’ve tussled with a whale. I done handcuffed lightning And throw thunder in jail. You know I’m bad. just last week, I murdered a rock, Injured a stone, Hospitalized a brick. I’m so mean, I make medicine sick. ~ Muhammad Ali,

506:There was a flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by a rumble of distant thunder. Madame Tracy felt rather proud, as if she had done it herself. It was even better than the candles at creating ambulance. Ambulance was what mediuming was all about. ~ Terry Pratchett,

507:Thunder growled in the distance, a beast prowling the countryside, hungry and snuffling the air for blood. He crossed the wet grass of the side yard, traversed the sidewalk. It was the same track he’d taken a thousand times before. Tonight would be the last. ~ Linda Castillo,

508:You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought. I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars. ~ Penelope Douglas,

509:God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice!  Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!  And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,  And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni,

510:I Planted A Hand I planted a hand And there came up a palm, I planted a heart And there came up balm. Then I planted a wish, But there sprang a thorn, While heaven frowned with thunder And earth sighed forlorn. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

511:Specific body parts, “problem areas,” also get labels—fupa, gunt, cankles, thunder thighs, Hi Susans, wings, cottage cheese thighs, hail damage, muffin tops, side boob, back fat, love handles, saddlebags, spare tires, double chins, gocks, man boobs, beer bellies. ~ Roxane Gay,

512:The prayer ended, 'May Almighty God defend us.' And God who is indeed mysterious, who had made no sign when they burned Pierre as he slept - not a clap of thunder, not a flash of lighting - mysterious God heard Mr Mason at once and answered him. The yells stopped. ~ Jean Rhys,

513:You have a smile like fire and eyes like thunder, and you make servants kill their masters and children kill their parents. You are the devourer of stars, the destroyer of time, the rash solution, the cleaving that can never be rejoined, giver of dooming rage. ~ Grady Hendrix,

514:how much weightier our witness would be if we remembered to thunder God’s justice, while always following with God’s welcome, through the vision of a God who in the crucified Christ is both just and the justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus (Rom. 3:26). ~ Russell D Moore,

515:Humans cannot fly, but they can get the flying feeling. All they need to do is go out at night into a wild storm where the thunder roars like applause and the lightning throws itself in daggers of light at your bare feet and you suddenly find you are not afraid. ~ Hilary McKay,

516:I wanted to hit him hard now. I wanted to hit him in the dark of the night’s ending, hit him in the thunder of Thor’s providential storm, hit him under the lash of Thor’s lightning, strike him in the wind and the rain of the gods. I would bring him chaos. ~ Bernard Cornwell,

517:Lace. My weakness. “You put those goddamn pants back on this instant,” I thunder, taking a step forward. “You sound like someone’s father.” Jameson laughs, reaching for the hem of her thick, wool ski sweater. “And I’m not going to be calling you Daddy any time soon. ~ Sara Ney,

518:Teo had once claimed that human history began with a storm: the interval between lightning and thunder, between the flash and the rumble felt in the body’s core, was primitive man’s first experience of time—the awakening of consciousness, the birth of the gods. ~ Max Gladstone,

519:When primitive man heard thunder or saw the lightning, he could not account for either, and therefore concluded that back of them must be a force greater than himself. Similarly he saw a supernatural force in the rain, and in the various other changes in nature. ~ Emma Goldman,

520:You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all of those things, and I loved you. But now…you’re a fucking drought. I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars. ~ Penelope Douglas,

521:But as you leave that dark gap in the trees behind, remember that to use a thing is not to own it and should you ever take a bride, listen closely to her questions. In them you may hear her true name like the thunder of a lost river, like the sighing of the sea. ~ Leigh Bardugo,

522:I spend a lot of time in L.A., and when it rains there you get the entire rainfall for the year in two days, raindrops the size of mangoes. And in Barcelona, the Mediterranean storms come up from the sea, thunder and lightning; its like the end of the world. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zafon,

523:The ocean tosses up a thousand arms to embrace the storm that falls across her like a drunken sailor. His thunder slaps her thighs, his lighting piercing her waters. They pound me between the hips and I begin to panic, knowing their passion will destroy me. ~ Terry Moore,

524:The world," he said, "is not a wish-granting factory," and then he broke down, just for one moment, his sob roaring impotent like a clap of thunder unaccompanied by lightning, the terrible ferocity that amateurs in the field of suffering might mistake for weakness. ~ John Green,

525:I am smiling at myself today There's no wish left in this heart Or perhaps there is no heart left Free from all desire I sit quietly like Earth My silent cry echoes like thunder Throughout the universe I am not worried about it I know it will be heard by no one Except me. ~ Rumi,

526:So, I soberly laid my last plan To extinguish the man. Round his creep-hole, with never a break Ran my fires for his sake; Over-head, did my thunder combine With my under-ground mine: Till I looked from my labour content To enjoy the event. ~ Robert Browning,

527:Christian turned around and penetrated Slater with his obsidian eyes. "Better talk or I'll introduce you to my two best friends," he said harshly, holding up his fists. "Meet thunder and lightning. If you don't start talking, it's going to storm all over your face. ~ Dannika Dark,

528:He raised his staff. There was a roll of thunder. The sunlight was blotted out from the eastern windows; the whole hall became suddenly dark as night. The fire faded to sullen embers. Only Gandalf could be seen, standing white and tall before the blackened hearth. ~ J R R Tolkien,

529:It is He who makes the lightning flash upon you, inspiring you with fear and hope, and gathers up the heavy clouds. The thunder sounds His praises, and the angels, too, in awe of him. He hurls his thunderbolts at whom He pleases. Yet the unbelievers wrangle about God. ~ Anonymous,

530:to the devil with learning to dance in the rain i laced tempests through my bones swallowed all the lightning that bit at my boldness, then called down my own personal chorus of thunder, so every storm that came my way knew straightaway i wasn't going quietly ~ Morgan Nikola Wren,

531:What did you say, Arthur?" "I said, how the hell did you get here?" "I was a row of dots flowing randomly through the Universe. Have you met Thor? He makes thunder." "Hello," said Arthur. "I expect that must be very interesting." "Hi," said Thor, "it is. ~ Douglas Adams,

532:Endless moons, an opaque universe, thunder, tornadoes, the quaking earth. Rare moments of peace; forehead up against my knees, arms around my head, I though, I listened, I longed not to exist. but life was there, a transparent pearl, a star revolving slowly on its own axis. ~ Shan Sa,

533:I received Christ into my heart and my life began to change. But it was a gradual change. And I didn't see any flashing bulbs. I didn't hear any thunder. There was no great emotional experience. It was just saying: Yes, Lord Jesus, I want you to be the lord of my life. ~ Billy Graham,

534:Seattle rain smells different from New Orleans rain... New Orleans rain smells of sulfur and hibiscus, trumpet metal, thunder and sweat. Seattle rain, the widespread rain of the Great Northwest, smells of green ice and sumi ink, of geology and silence and minnow breath. ~ Tom Robbins,

535:I was standing in our dining-room thinking of nothing in particular, when a cablegram was put into my hand. It said, 'Susy was peacefully released today.' It is one of the mysteries of our nature that a man, all unprepared, can receive a thunder-stroke like that and live. ~ Mark Twain,

536:Ockham stood so calmly through the outburst, watching hysteria drain the color from Carlyle's face. It made me think of Alexander, of his force, the human thunder of our Mediterranean sweeping through deserts, through empires, but India, calm, mighty India, fears nothing. ~ Ada Palmer,

537:I had learned and written too much history not to know that the great masses always and at once respond to the force of gravity in the direction of the powers that be. I knew that the same voices which yelled "Heil Schuschnigg" today would thunder "Heil Hitler" tomorrow. ~ Stefan Zweig,

538:I had learned and written too much history not to know that the great masses always and at once respond to the force of gravity in the direction of the powers that be. I knew that the same voices which yelled “Heil Schuschnigg” today would thunder “Heil Hitler” tomorrow. ~ Stefan Zweig,

539:the swallows, fleeing before the hoopoes, shall have all flocked together in one place, and shall refrain them from all amorous commerce, then will be the end of all the ills of life; yea, and Zeus, which doth thunder in the skies, shall set above what was erst below.... ~ Aristophanes,

540:A giant dance of Shiva tore the past; There was a thunder as of worlds that fall; Earth was o’errun with fire and the roar of Death Clamouring to slay a world his hunger had made; There was a clangour of Destruction’s wings: ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Vision and the Boon,

541:I was standing in our dining-room thinking of nothing in particular, when a cablegram was put into my hand. It said, 'Susy was peacefully released today.' It is one of the mysteries of our nature that a man, all unprepared, can receive a thunder-stroke like that and live. ~ Mark Twain,

542:The summer nights are so endless, so open and dark. A summer night is like a different country, or a museum after the crowds have all gone and the lights are off. In the distance, so quiet, like the sound of a record playing before the music starts, comes a hint of thunder. ~ Nick Antosca,

543:But the climate, the social climate of American life, erupted into lightning flashes, trembled with thunder and vibrated to the relentless, growing rain of protest come to life through the land. Explosively, America’s third revolution—the Negro Revolution—had begun. ~ Martin Luther King Jr,

544:The great men of earth are the shadow men, who, having lived and died, now live again and forever through their undying thoughts. Thus living, though their footfalls are heard no more, their voices are louder than the thunder, and unceasing as the flow of tides or air. ~ Henry Ward Beecher,

545:The ocean waves thunder on, and it is man who must swim amongst them. The wind blows, cold and brittle, and it is man who must protect against it. The earth shakes and cracks, swallows and destroys, but it is man who must walk upon it. So it is with death. I cannot surrender. ~ Sabaa Tahir,

546:All night sheetlightning quaked sourceless to the west beyond the midnight thunder-heads, making a bluish day of the distant desert, the mountains on the sudden skyline stark and black and livid like a land of some other order out there whose true geology was not stone but fear. ~ Anonymous,

547:I guess I always thought it would be bigger, when a terrible thing happened. Didn't you think so? Doesn't it seem like houses ought to be caving in, and lightning and thunder, and people tearing their hair in the street? I never - I never thought it would be this small, did you? ~ Dan Chaon,

548:It's about being you, but the you that people believe in. It's about being the concentrated, magnified, essence of you. It's about becoming thunder, or the power of a running horse, or wisdom. You take all the belief and become bigger, cooler, more than human. You crystallize. ~ Neil Gaiman,

549:Power exhibits itself under two distinct forms,--strength and force,--each possessing peculiar qualities, and each perfect in its own sphere. Strength is typified by the oak, the rock, the mountain. Force embodies itself in the cataract, the tempest, and the thunder-bolt. ~ James A Garfield,

550:You can love someone as many ways as water falls from the sky. Sometimes it falls with thunder and lightning; other times it falls silently. Sometimes it falls as cool snow, and other times hard balls of ice beat down. If you want the water, you don’t get to choose how it falls. ~ Anonymous,

551:A revolution such as ours is not a trial, but a clap of thunder for the wicked." Good strikes like a thunderbolt, innocence is a flash of lightning—a flash of lightning that brings justice. Even the pleasure-seekers—in fact, they above all —are counterrevolutionaries. ~ Albert Camus,

552:If you can't see the sun you will be impressed with a street light. If you've never felt thunder and lightning you'll be impressed with fireworks. And if you turn your back on the greatness and majesty of God you'll fall in love with a world of shadows and short-lived pleasures. ~ John Piper,

553:New Year’s Eve always terrifies me life knows nothing of years. now the horns have stopped and the firecrackers and the thunder… it’s all over in five minutes… all I hear is the rain on the palm leaves, and I think, I will never understand men, but I have lived it through. ~ Charles Bukowski,

554:And also, one is a mother in order to understand the inexplicable. One is a mother to lighten the darkness. One is a mother to shield when lightning streaks the night, when thunder shakes the earth, when mud bogs one down. One is a mother in order to love without beginning or end. ~ Mariama B,

555:Curran roared. The blast of noise erupting from his mouth was like thunder. I clenched up, fighting the urge to step back. “Yes I can,” he snarled. “Listen: this is me telling you what you will not do.” I raised the cookbook and tapped him on the nose. Bad cat. ~ Ilona Andrews,

556:Divine love is rendered conspicuous when it shines in the midst of judgments. Fair is that lone star which smiles through the rifts of the thunder clouds; bright is the oasis which blooms in the wilderness of sand; so fair and so bright is love in the midst of wrath. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

557:The years thunder by. The dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed. Where, then lies the answer? In choice. Which shall it be: Bankruptcy of Purse or Bankruptcy of Life? ~ Sterling Hayden,

558:And also, one is a mother in order to understand the inexplicable. One is a mother to lighten the darkness. One is a mother to shield when lightning streaks the night, when thunder shakes the earth, when mud bogs one down. One is a mother in order to love without beginning or end. ~ Mariama B,

559:And do we also have, do we have … a party of minor deities from the Halls of Asgard?” Away to his right came a rumble of thunder. Lightning arced across the stage. A small group of hairy men with helmets sat looking very pleased with themselves, and raised their glasses to him. ~ Douglas Adams,

560:His nature is too noble for the world: He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, Or Jove for’s power to thunder. His heart’s his mouth: What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent; And being angry, does forget that ever He heard the name of death. ~ William Shakespeare,

561:If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom and yet depreciate agitation are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. ~ Frederick Douglass,

562:It was one of those hot, silent nights, when people sit at windows, listening for the thunder which they know will shortly break; when they recall dismal tales of hurricanes and earthquakes; and of lonely travelers on open plains, and lonely ships at sea, struck by lightning. ~ Charles Dickens,

563:It was one of those hot, silent nights, when people sit at windows listening for the thunder which they know will shortly break; when they recall dismal tales of hurricanes and earthquakes; and of lonely travellers on open plains, and lonely ships at sea, struck by lightning. ~ Charles Dickens,

564:His nature is too noble for the world: He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, Or Jove for's power to thunder. His heart's his mouth: What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent; And, being angry, does forget that ever He heard the name of Death. ~ William Shakespeare,

565:Loving is like music. Some instruments can go up two octaves, some four, and some all the way from black thunder to sharp lightning. As some of them are susceptible only of melody, so some hearts can sing but one song of love, while others will fun in a full choral harmony. ~ Henry Ward Beecher,

566:It seemed as if the train would never depart. Local trains are always somehow overzealous. At first they panic everyone into believing they are just about to thunder off down the track with an almighty jolt, then, at the very last minute, there is always some improbable hitch. ~ Dezs Kosztol nyi,

567:Rest in this-it is His business to lead, command, impel, send, call, or whatever you want to call it. It is your business to obey, follow, move, respond, or what have you... The sound of 'gentle stillness' after all the thunder and wind have passed will be the ultimate Word from God. ~ Jim Elliot,

568:When you beat a drum, you create NOW, when silence becomes a sound so enormous and alive it feels like you’re breathing in the clouds and the sky, and your heart is the rain and the thunder. Jiko says that this is an example of the time being. Sound and no-sound. Thunder and silence. ~ Ruth Ozeki,

569:Alex and I have always been like thunder and lightning. Close together and part of the same storm, but never clashing in perfect sync. I had given up hope long ago that things would happen between us but also felt that in another universe, a different lifetime, our fates would collide. ~ B L Berry,

570:The few times I said to myself anywhere: ‘Now that’s a nice spot for a permanent home,’ I would immediately hear in my mind the thunder of an avalanche carrying away the hundreds of far places which I would destroy by the very act of settling in one particular nook of the earth. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,

571:A roll of thunder signaled another rain shower passing over the town. Simon pulled Magdalena close and kissed her until, locked in a tight embrace, they sank to the ground in a puddle of blood, mud, and horse piss. A small bundle of humanity in the midst of the thundering downpour. ~ Oliver P tzsch,

572:I've been on planes flying through thunder storms when the pilot says, 'ladies and gentlemen, we tried to fly around it but we can't so it's going to be rough'.And when a pilot says it's going to be bad, it's going to be rough. And you say to youself, boy, I could have got the train. ~ Muhammad Ali,

573:He wanted to be deafened by the thunder of her engines, he needed to be drained of every thought by the cold, the noise, the equal amounts of boredom and adrenalin. He had believed once that he would be formed by the architecture of war, but now he realized, he had been erased by it. ~ Kate Atkinson,

574:They are fools, who reckon Elua a soft god, fit only for the worship of starry-eyed lovers. Let the warriors clamor after gods of blood and thunder; love is hard, harder than steel and thrice as cruel. It is as inexorable as the tides, and life and death alike follow in it's wake. ~ Jacqueline Carey,

575:Pericles, act 2, sc. 1, l. 1-3. Seeing the storm that has shipwrecked him as marking the anger of the heavens! "Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of heaven! Wind, rain, and thunder, remember earthly man Is but a substance that must yield to you." -William Shakespeare ~ William Shakespeare,

576:The Shadow of the Emperor The Hooded One Who unmasked night Who laid the stars like paving stones Who rode the Thunderbolt Down the star-cobbled path into day Was Kane, The Emperor's twin Silent, as lightning is silent, Before the thunder speaks. ~ Patricia A McKillip,

577:Intelligent Design has been hijacked by a narrow group of creationist fundamentalists in America to mean something it didn't originally mean at all. It's another form of the God of the gaps. It's bad theology in that it turns God once again into the pagan god of thunder and lightning. ~ Guy Consolmagno,

578:Do you ... still believe?' 'Our very presence here, a Polynesian goddess sitting next to a Zulu thunder god, listening to the song of a Greek siren, should be proof enough that religions can and do coexist.' He looked back at the cross over the entryway. 'And I still do not know. ~ Karsten Knight,

579:From your hand, creating God, come the shape of the land, the warmth of fire, the mystery of shadows, the feel of skin. From your mouth, mighty Spirit, flow the sound of thunder, the whisper of rain, the stillness of dawn, the humming of night. May I touch, O God; O Spirit, may I hear. ~ Jan L Richardson,

580:[...] I kept thinking we were trapped in hell. Infernal, lung-curdling smoke? Check. Eardrum-bursting, satanic thunder? Check. Multitudes of shrieking imps? Check. [...] I had the gut feeling I was trapped there eternally, back behind First Baptist's aluminum-sided temple. ~ Julia Elliott,

581:I was in his hands, he called me by the thunder at my ear. I was in his hands: I was being changed; all that I could do was cling to him. I did not realize, until I realized it, that I was also kissing him, that everything was breaking and changing and turning in me and moving toward him. ~ James Baldwin,

582:The hybrid car I was aiming for suddenly crumples under the weight of something crashing down on it. The thunder of the crash almost makes me jump out of my boots. Luckily, it covers Mom’s scream. I catch a flash of tawny limbs and snowy wings. An angel. I have to blink to make sure it’s real. ~ Susan Ee,

583:Disney World?” Ari felt like his head was about to explode. “Disney World?” His gravelly voice rose into a harsh shriek. “They’re not on vacation! They’re on the run! They’re running for their lives! Death is following them like a bullet, and they’re on the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad? ~ James Patterson,

584:I was in his hands, he called me by the thunder at my ear. I was in his hands: I was being changed; all that I could do was cling to him. I did not realize, until I realized it, that I was also kissing him, that everything was breaking and changing and turning in me and moving toward him. ~ James A Baldwin,

585:Stood visible, Titanic, scarlet-clad, Dark as a thunder-cloud, with streaming hair Obscuring heaven, and in her sovran grasp The sword, the flower, the boon, the bleeding head,— Bhavani. Then she vanished; the daylight Was ordinary in a common w ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Baji Prabhou,

586:The universe is composed of subjects to be communed with, not objects to be exploited. Everything has its own voice. Thunder and lightening and stars and planets, flowers, birds, animals, trees, ~~ all these have voices, and they constitute a community of existence that is profoundly related. ~ Thomas Berry,

587:Fear is unnatural. Lightning and thunder are unnatural. Pain, death, reality, these are all unnatural. We can't bear these things as they are. We know too much. So we resort to repression, compromise and disguise. This is how we survive the universe. This is the natural language of the species. ~ Don DeLillo,

588:I am smiling at myself today There's no wish left in this heart Or perhaps there is no heart left Free from all desire I sit quietly like Earth My silent cry echoes like thunder Throughout the universe I am not worried about it I know it will be heard by no one Except me. ~ Rumi,

589:I gave my heart to the mountains the minute I stood beside this river with its spray in my face and watched it thunder into foam, smooth to green glass over sunken rocks, shatter to foam again. I was fascinated by how it sped by and yet was always there; its roar shook both the earth and me. ~ Wallace Stegner,

590:Just then, thunder boomed overhead. Lightning flashed, and the bars on the nearest window burst into sizzling, melted stubs of iron. Jason flew in like Peter Pan, electricity sparking around him and his gold sword steaming. Leo whistled appreciatively. “Man, you just wasted an awesome entrance. ~ Rick Riordan,

591:Laying in the dark, she wondered what the day would bring. Some days were trumpet-proud. They heralded like thunder. Some were courteous, careful as a lettered card upon a silver plate. But some days were shy. They did not name themselves. They waited for a careful girl to find them. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

592:World War II, you know, that was basically a fight between the sons of Zeus and Poseidon on one side, and the sons of Hades on the other. The winning side, Zeus and Poseidon, made Hades swear an oath with them: no more affairs with mortal women. They all swore on the River Styx.’ Thunder boomed. ~ Rick Riordan,

593:Godspeed. Citius venit malum quam revertitur. Evil arrives faster than it departs. PROLOGUE ITALIAN COAST GUARD HEADQUARTERS MARITIME RESCUE COORDINATION CENTER ROME An explosion of thunder shook the building as Lieutenant Pietro Renzi, dressed in his Navy whites, answered the phone in front of him. ~ Brad Thor,

594:I don't read all the junk. I joke if I did, I wouldn't get out of bed in the morning. But, Sometimes the comments over the top - really ugly. Many of them are critical of my looks, like the one that criticized my "thunder thighs." I get that a lot. Some of the tweets are too vulgar to repeat. ~ Gretchen Carlson,

595:I hope that you are a disaster. I'm sorry, but I do. I hope that you are thunder and lightning. I hope you are a forest fire, I hope you kill the dead wood and burn off the rotting leaves. With the canopy gone, the sun can get in. You need new growth. I hope you're terrible and broken and perfect. ~ Joey Comeau,

596:I want that love that moved the mountains. I want that love that split the ocean. I want that love that made the winds tremble. I want that love that roared like thunder. I want that love that will raise the dead. I want that love that lifts us to ecstasy. I want that love that is the silence of eternity ~ Rumi,

597:The sight of you brings joy to my heart and makes my blood thunder in my veins. I know not how long I will be allowed to stand here. So there are words I must say. That you are the moon and the stars to me, and the air I breathe. To love you is to live. So if I die.... I will still live in you. ~ Kate Furnivall,

598:Before that, I always hated thunder…until you explained that it’s the universe losing her temper when bad things happened, just like us.” “She’s pissed for us. She’s raining down hell because she knows it shouldn’t have happened. She’s crying for us. She wants someone to make it right, and they will. ~ S E Jakes,

599:I’d thought she’d nixed the MAGA cap because it wasn’t funny. Turned out she didn’t want Todd stealing her thunder. She had dyed her hair the colour of listeria and she was wearing a terrible blue trouser suit and a long red paper-clipped tie. She’d bound her breasts and added a fake paunch. ~ Catriona McPherson,

600:When the body dies, where will they go, those migrant birds and prayer calls, as heat from sheets when taken from a dryer? With voices of the ones I loved, great loves and small loves, train wheels, crickets, clock-ticks, thunder – where will they, when in fragrant, tumbled heat they also leave? ~ Jane Hirshfield,

601:When there came a sound that I'd never heard the like of in all my born days. Eh, I won't forget that. The whole air was full of it, loud as thunder but far longer, cool and sweet as music over water but strong enough to shake the woods. And I said to myself, 'If that's not the Horn, call me a rabbit. ~ C S Lewis,

602:In the earliest times, which were so susceptible to vague speculation and the inevitable ordering of the universe, there can have existed no division between the poetic and the prosaic. Everything must have been tinged with magic. Thor was not the god of thunder; he was the thunder and the god. ~ Jorge Luis Borges,

603:The spirit of a people, its cultural level, its social structure, the deeds its policy may prepare—all this and more is written in its fiscal history, stripped of all phrases. He who knows how to listen to its message here discerns the thunder of world history more clearly than anywhere else. ~ Joseph A Schumpeter,

604:The productions of the press, fast as steam can make and carry them, go abroad through all the land, silent as snowflakes, but potent as thunder. It is an additional tongue of steam and lightning, by which a man speaks his first thought, his instant argument or grievance, to millions in a day. ~ Edwin Hubbel Chapin,

605:The servants of God who had been a besieged garrison became a marching army; the ways of the world were filled as with thunder with the trampling of their feet and far ahead of that ever swelling host went a man singing; as simply he had sung that morning in the winter woods, where he walked alone. ~ G K Chesterton,

606:The time's come: there's a terrific thunder-cloud advancing upon us, a mighty storm is coming to freshen us up....It's going to blow away all this idleness and indifference, and prejudice against work....I'm going to work, and in twenty-five or thirty years' time every man and woman will be working. ~ Anton Chekhov,

607:God may thunder His commands from Mount Sinai and men may fear, yet remain at heart exactly as they were before. But let a man once see his God down in the arena as a Man-suffering, tempted, sweating, and agonized, finally dying a criminal's death-and he is a hard man indeed who is untouched. ~ John Bertram Phillips,

608:  Hee in Celestial Panoplie all armd   Of radiant URIM, work divinely wrought,   Ascended, at his right hand Victorie   Sate Eagle-wing'd, beside him hung his Bow   And Quiver with three-bolted Thunder stor'd,   And from about him fierce Effusion rowld   Of smoak and bickering flame, and sparkles dire; ~ John Milton,

609:Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love... It wasn’t dramatic, like some bolt of lightning with a crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and the spark fades almost too fast for you to see. But still, you know it’s there, down where you can’t see, kindling. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

610:We will go to every part of Tamil Nadu and tell the people that Hindi is coming and that it is like a thunder strike on the heads of Tamil and Dravidian people.... If Hindi were to become the official language of India, Hindi-speaking people will govern us. We will be treated like third rate citizens ~ C N Annadurai,

611:His eyes touched every part of her. Even parts that may never have been touched before. They flashed with lightning, singing along her nerves with electric currents of heat. A sultry, answering thunder whipped through her, calling forth a storm so unexpected, she almost felt betrayed by her own body. ~ Kerrigan Byrne,

612:On the second night all creatures woke, and the sleepless cricket was silent suddenly. The thunder spoke from ridge to ridge, from canyon to canyon, far, then nearer. Darkness split wide open to reveal what it hides. Only for a moment can the eyes of the creatures see the world in that awful light. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

613:Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

614:You need not expect to get your book right the first time. Go to work and revamp or rewrite it. God only exhibits his thunder and lightning at intervals, and so they always command attention. These are God's adjectives. You thunder and lightning too much; the reader ceases to get under the bed, by and by. ~ Mark Twain,

615:Laughter appears to stand in need of an echo, Listen to it carefully: it is not an articulate, clear, well-defined sound; it is something which would fain be prolonged by reverberating from one to another, something beginning with a crash, to continue in successive rumblings, like thunder in a mountain. ~ Henri Bergson,

616:Over middle of mantel, engraving—Washington Crossing the Delaware; on the wall by the door, copy of it done in thunder-and-lightning crewels by one of the young ladies—work of art which would have made Washington hesitate about crossing, if he could have foreseen what advantage was going to be taken of it. ~ Mark Twain,

617:Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, “Come.” I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer. —Revelation 6: 1-2 ~ Laura Thalassa,

618:There is one topic peremptorily forbidden to all well-bred, to all rational mortals, namely, their distempers. If you have not slept or if you have slept or if you have head ache or sciatica or leprosy or thunder-stroke, I beseech you, by all angels, to hold your peace and not pollute the morning. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

619:The sparks are gone, replaced by fierce, ugly tears that track down my face. Thunder rumbles somewhere far off and the air is warm. But the humid temperature is gone. The heat has broken and summer will soon be over. Time is passing. My life is moving on, no matter how much I want it to stay the same. ~ Victoria Aveyard,

620:And it came to pass when they heard this avoice, and beheld that it was not a voice of thunder, neither was it a voice of a great tumultuous noise, but behold, it was a bstill voice of perfect mildness, as if it had been a whisper, and it did pierce even to the very soul— ~ The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints,

621:Before she could blink, he’d climbed on stage with her and easily pulled the microphone out of her hand. “You’re welcome.” She made a sound of outrage. “This is exactly how Taylor Swift felt when Kanye West stole her thunder at the VMAs.” His scowl deepened. "I don't know who or what those things are. ~ Tessa Bailey,

622:[...] just remember, the storm doesn't last forever. It can scare you; it can shake you to your core. But it never lasts. The rain subsides, the thunder dies, and the winds calm to a soft whisper. And that moment after the storm clouds pass, when all is silent and still, you find peace. Quiet, gentle peace. ~ S L Jennings,

623:When a vision comes from the thunder beings of the west, it comes with terror like a thunder storm; but when the storm of vision has passed, the world is greenier and happier; for wherever the truth of vision comes upon the world, it is like a rain. The world, you see, is happier after the terror of the storm. ~ Black Elk,

624:...wrote Lawrence Block. "Someone once told me that fear and courage are like lightning and thunder; they both start out at the same time, but the fear travels faster and arrives sooner. If we just wait a moment, the requisite courage will be along shortly." (quoted from Write for Your Live by Lawrence Block) ~ Ralph Keyes,

625:Don't say Dick Gansey, man. Do not say it. He's never going to be with you And don't tell me you don't swing that way, man. I'm in your head." "That's not what Gansey is to me," Ronan said. "You didn't say you don't swing that way." Ronan was silent. Thunder growled under his feet. No, I didn't. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

626:I hate it when storm clouds roll in, heralded by dazzling claps of thunder and lightning that boast an ocean of tears. This majestic performance of bad temper manages to overshadow my pathetic attempts at pouting. No one broods like Mother Nature, hence she steals all the attention I was sulking after. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

627:So, when on one side you hoist in Locke's head, you go over that way; but now, on the other side, hoist in Kant's and you come back again; but in very poor plight. Thus, some minds for ever keep trimming boat. Oh, ye foolish! throw all these thunder-heads overboard, and then you will float light and right. ~ Herman Melville,

628:The South Pacific is memorable because when you are in the islands you simply cannot ignore nature. You cannot avoid looking up at the stars, large as apples on a new tree. You cannot deafen your ear to the thunder of the surf. The bright sands, the screaming birds, and the wild winds are always with you. ~ James A Michener,

629:Don't say Dick Gansey, man. Do not say it. He's never going to be with you. And don't tell me you don't swing that way, man. I'm in your head." "That's not what Gansey is to me," Ronan said. "You didn't say you don't swing that way." Ronan was silent. Thunder growled under his feet. No, I didn't. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

630:But, as Paul is at pains to stress, the law is good, and just, and holy.50 And we need to understand, sense, feel, and then delight in the grace of law.51 For unless we are persuaded that God has shown his grace in his law as well as in his Son, all we will hear and see at Sinai is thunder and lightning. ~ Sinclair B Ferguson,

631:Don't say Dick Gansey, man. Do not say it. He's never going to be with you. And don't tell me you don't swing that way, man. I'm in your head." "That's not what Gansey is to me," Ronan said. "You didn't say you don't swing that way." Ronan was silent. Thunder growled under his feet. "No, I didn't. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

632:Storms can suck when they’re knocking out power and ripping apart houses, no doubt. But other times the thunder is a soundtrack to something unpredictable, something that gets our hearts racing and wakes us up. If someone had warned me about the weather, I might have freaked out and stayed inside. But I didn’t. ~ Adam Silvera,

633:It might be thought that this was a poor way to accumulate a princely fortune--and so it was, a very poor way indeed. But I am on of those that never take on about princely fortunes, and I am quite content if the world is ready to board and lodge me, while I am putting up at this grim sign of the Thunder Cloud. ~ Herman Melville,

634:After Game Six of the Finals, as Paxson's shot went through the net, Michael Jordan raced to the basket to get the ball. He held it up high above his head, and his teammates thought he was going to say something about a prospective trip to Disneyland. Instead, he yelled out, "Thunder Dan Majerle-my fucking ass! ~ David Halberstam,

635:I dreamed that Milton's spirit rose, and took From life's green tree his Uranian lute; And from his touch sweet thunder flowed, and shook All human things built in contempt of man,-- And sanguine thrones and impious altars quaked, Prisons and citadels... ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Fragment - Miltons Spirit ,

636:When we were kids the coolest dinosaur in world was the brontosaurus, which means 'THUNDERLIZARD'. But it turns out brontosaurs isn't even a thing, it's just an apatosaurus which means 'deceptive lizard', which isn't nearly as cool. I don't want my gigantic lizards to bring the lies. I want them to bring the thunder. ~ John Green,

637:I shall fear not. According to the Testament of Mezerek, the fisherman Nonpo spent four days in the belly of a giant fish," said Constable Visit. The thunder seemed particularly loud in the silence. "Washpot, are we talking miracles here?" said Reg eventually. "Or just a very slow digestive process? ~ Terry Pratchett,

638:My head seems to be rumbling. Then I realize it’s the sky. It’s thunder. Suddenly, warm raindrops fall on us, spraying us until we’re completely wet. Raffe ignores it and continues to kiss me. We hold each other, pressing tighter and harder together. We fly in each other’s arms in the rain over a smoldering hell. ~ Susan Ee,

639:Storm Ending Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads, Great, hollow, bell-like flowers, Rumbling in the wind, Stretching clappers to strike our ears . . . Full-lipped flowers Bitten by the sun Bleeding rain Dripping rain like golden honey— And the sweet earth flying from the thunder. ~ Jean Toomer,

640:the streams buck like rams in a tent / whips crack and from the hills come the crookedly combed /shadows of the shepherds. /black eggs and fools' bells fall from the trees. / thunder drums and kettledrums beat upon the ears of the donkeys. / wings brush against flowers. / fountains spring up in the eyes of the wild boar. ~ Hans Arp,

641:Epistles; let them peruse the large number of precepts against avarice and luxury which are everywhere read to the congregations that meet for this purpose, and which strike the ear, not with the uncertain sound of a philosophical discussion, but with the thunder of God’s own oracle pealing from the clouds. ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,

642:The thunder rolled, one last time. It poured through the narrow, dirty black streets, slid into the gaps between cobbles, rippled across the water of the river, made the still bells hum, and passed on, spreading out into the countryside beyond, where it bent the grass, whispered in the trees and eventually died away. ~ Catherine Webb,

643:And I'll tell you, I've seen the lightning flash. I've heard the thunder roll. I felt sin-breakers dashing, trying to conquer my soul. But I heard the voice of Jesus saying still to fight on. He promised never to leave me, never to leave me alone. No, never alone. He promised never to leave me, never to leave me alone. ~ Martin Luther,

644:There has been no storm, no thunder just the steady swish of tropical downpour. It helps one to lie awake; at the same time; it doesn't keep one from sleeping. It Is a good sound to read by - the rain outside, the quiet within - and there is a general feeling of being untouched by, and yet in touch with, the rain. ~ Ruskin Bond,

645:With disciplined, with fierce, mute anger,   Unconquerable battle lust,   O Northern manhood’s finest flower,   O nonpareil youth of the East, 9790 Who wear the lightning of bright armor,   Who break great empires like a reed—   You pass, and thunder follows after,   The earth shakes underneath your tread. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

646:After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The crying and the shouting Prison and place and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience ~ T S Eliot,

647:And it is all as tranquil and reposeful as dreamland, and has nothing this-worldly about it—nothing to hang a fret or a worry upon. Until the unholy train comes tearing along—which it presently does, ripping the sacred solitude to rags and tatters with its devil's warwhoop and the roar and thunder of its rushing wheels—and ~ Mark Twain,

648:I want that love that moved the mountains. I want that love that split the ocean. I want that love that made the winds tremble. I want that love that roared like thunder. I want that love that will raise the dead. I want that love that lifts us to ecstasy. I want that love that is the silence of eternity. ~ Rumi,

649:You might as well appeal against the thunder-storm as against these terrible hardships of war. They are inevitable, and the only way the people of Atlanta can hope once more to live in peace and quiet at home, is to stop the war, which can only be done by admitting that it began in error and is perpetuated in pride. ~ William T Sherman,

650:The Proclaimers thunder through my head. Imagine it. Imagine killing someone to the tune of two Scottish nerds wearing glasses and flattop haircuts. How will I ever listen to that song again? What will I do if it comes on the radio? I'll think of the night I murdered another man and stole his life with my own hands. ~ Markus Zusak,

651:And if these mountains had eyes, they would wake to find two strangers in their fences, standing in admiration as a breathing red pours its tinge upon earth's shore. These mountains, which have seen untold sunrises, long to thunder praise but stand reverent, silent so that man's weak praise should be given God's attention. ~ Donald Miller,

652:Don’t say Dick Gansey, man. Do not say it. He is never going to be with you. And don’t me tell you don’t swing that way, man. I’m in your head.” “That’s not what Gansey is to me,” Ronan said. “You didn’t say you don’t swing that way.” Ronan was silent. Thunder growled under his feet. “No, I didn’t. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

653:Joss Merlyn shouted at the top of his voice, and the noise was deafening. Mary did not fear him like this; the whole thing was bluster and show; it was when he lowered his voice and whispered that she knew him to be deadly. For all his thunder he was frightened; she could see that; and his confidence was rudely shaken. ~ Daphne du Maurier,

654:Excellence, much labored for by the race of mortals.” The Greeks from the earliest mythologists on had a perception of the divine and the excellent. Their longing for them was great enough to make them never give up laboring to see them clearly, until at last the thunder and lightning were changed into the Universal Father. ~ Edith Hamilton,

655:Someone made the mistake of telling me the safest place in a lightning storm was in a car because of the grounding of the rubber tires. After that, at the first sound of thunder, I caterwauled until my parents would take me in the car until the storm subsided. I then proceeded to write about cars for the rest of my life. ~ Bruce Springsteen,

656:You got to understand the god thing. It’s not magic. It’s about being you, but the you that people believe in. It’s about being the concentrated, magnified, essence of you. It’s about becoming thunder, or the power of a running horse, or wisdom. You take all the belief and become bigger, cooler, more than human. You crystallize. ~ Anonymous,

657:Book Power Books feed and cure and chortle and collide. In all this willful world of thud and thump and thunder man’s relevance to books continues to declare. Books are meat and medicine and flame and flight and flower, steel, stitch, and cloud and clout, and drumbeats in the air. ~ Gwendolyn Brooks,

658:Both Rolling Thunder and Spotted Fawn had told me about how “spiritual healing” begins with respect for the Great Spirit—the life and love that can be found in all of nature’s creations. Each element of creation has its own will, its own way, and its own purpose. These ways need to be respected, not exploited, by human beings. ~ Ervin Laszlo,

659:The Owl & Moon would never lack for customers. If a person came in for Chocolate Bomb cookies for her daughter's birthday, while she waited to have them boxed she'd smell the paper-thin rosemary-garlic Cheese Pennies, and pick up two dozen. Then she'd ask for a taste of the gleaming slab of Chocolate Cherry Thunder fudge. ~ Jo Ann Mapson,

660:When you take your step your dream comes true,you see the sky with fluffy clouds you take your breath-the flowers bloom you belth your way to the top of the mountain you see the sky it leaves you nothing but bumps the rain comes down the lighting hits you are the thunder and Im your lighting just deal with everything Naturally. ~ Selena Gomez,

661:You might as well appeal against the thunder-storm as against these terrible hardships of war. They are inevitable, and the only way the people of Atlanta can hope once more to live in peace and quiet at home, is to stop the war, which can only be done by admitting that it began in error and is perpetuated in pride. ~ William Tecumseh Sherman,

662:HERE THE DARKNESS REIGNS ETERNAL. There is no sun, no dawn; just the perpetual gloom of night. The only illumination comes from jagged forks of lightning, carving a wicked path through angry clouds. In their savage wake thunder shreds the sky, unleashing a torrent of hard, cold rain. The storm is coming, and there is no escape. ~ Drew Karpyshyn,

663:It’s not about surviving. It should be about love. When you know love…that’s what makes this life worth it. When you live with it everyday. Wake up with it, hold on to it during the thunder and after a nightmare. When love is your refuge from the death that surrounds us all and when it fills you so tight that you can’t express it. ~ Carrie Ryan,

664:It's not about surviving. It should be about love. When you love ... that’s what makes this life worth it. When you live with it every day. Wake up with it, hold on to it during the thunder and after a nightmare. When love is your refuge from the death that surrounds us all and when it fills you so tight that you can’t express it. ~ Carrie Ryan,

665:She had known his father when lightning flashed and thunder rolled through Heaven, and his father said: ‘Listen. God is talking.’ She had known him in the mornings of that far-off country when his father turned on his bed and opened his eyes, and she had looked into those eyes, seeing what they held, and she had not been afraid. ~ James Baldwin,

666:The man behind the divan stood up, the machine pistol quivering in his grasp. There was a flash, Abigail thinking he’d pulled the trigger, the walls of the sitting area lighting up, the snow glinting. It went dark again. Muffled thunder rolled through the basin, shook the chandelier, the weakened floor trembling beneath her feet. ~ Blake Crouch,

667:we all begin the process before we are ready, before we are strong enough, before we know enough; we begin a dialogue with thoughts and feelings that both tickle and thunder within us. We respond before we know how to speak the language, before we know all the answers, and before we know exactly to whom we are speaking. ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes,

668:we all begin the process before we are ready, before we are strong enough, before we know enough; we begin a dialogue with thoughts and feelings that both tickle and thunder within us. We respond before we know how to speak the language, before we know all the answers, and before we know exactly to whom we are speaking. ~ Clarissa Pinkola Est s,

669:I told Bernie Taupin that his best lyrics were for Song For Guy just because it doesn't have any words in it. But there you go... I'm a wind up! But a good Elton song for karaoke is I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues... "laughing like children, living like lovers, rolling like thunder under the covers..." Everyone can join in! ~ Matt Lucas,

670:It's not about surviving. It should be about love. When you know love...that's what makes this life worth it. When you live with it everyday. Wake up with it, hold on to it during the thunder and after a nightmare. When love is your refuge from the death that surrounds us all and when it fills you so tight that you can't express it. ~ Carrie Ryan,

671:Slowly, he starts to hum. I recognize the tune as the sad song, the one we kissed to in a room full of moonlight. Thunder rumbles in the clouds, threatening to burst. Raindrops pitter on the dome above us. It shocks and sizzles the rain, but the water keeps coming in a steady downpour. Even the sky weeps for our loss. ~ Victoria Aveyard,

672:There is silver blue, sky blue and thunder blue. Every colour holds within it a soul, which makes me happy or repels me, and which acts as a stimulus. To a person who has no art in him, colours are colours, tones tones...and that is all. All their consequences for the human spirit, which range between heaven to hell, just go unnoticed. ~ Emil Nolde,

673:I could feel the urgency in the driver’s voice as he prodded the horses to greater momentum. The rumble of thunder could be heard rolling through the mountains as foreboding dark clouds rolled overhead obscuring the starry sky.  The sun vanished with one last glimmer through the pine trees, then night took possession of the earth.  ~ Rhiannon Frater,

674:I don't know how it happened. Through the din of the crowd, I heard this tiny scream. As small and distant as it was, it was like thunder in my head.' He looked up at me. Some of the blood had drained from his face making the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced. 'I knew it was you. I don't know how or why, but I knew it was you. ~ Tess Oliver,

675:Somewhere out there was the Ankh-Morpork army, what there was of it. And somewhere waiting was the Klatchian army. And thousands of men who might have quite liked one another had they met socially would thunder toward one another and start killing, and after that first rush you had all the excuses you needed to do it again and again… ~ Terry Pratchett,

676:Beware the darkness of dragons, Beware the stalker of dreams, Beware the talons of power and fire, Beware one who is not what she seems. Something is coming to shake the earth, Something is coming to scorch the ground. Jade Mountain will fall beneath thunder and ice Unless the lost city of night can be found. ~ Tui T Sutherland,

677:I think I remember seeing it on a map,” Janner said. “It’s a bridge—at Fingap Falls.” “Fingap Falls!” Podo sputtered. “Blubber and porridge, how could there be a bridge at that awful place? I went there as a boy, and it was all cloud and thunder, a thing to make yer stomach curl up into yer throat. No. Absolutely not. We can’t go east. ~ Andrew Peterson,

678:Then everything turned brilliant white for a second, and Jacob's eyes were stunned. The shock faded, but then another flash came, dulled by the darkness of the fog. Blades of lightning broke through the sea of smoke, accompanied by the violent clap of thunder, as if an angry god saw the storm devour them, and burst out into wild applause. ~ Dean F Wilson,

679:The change that comes our way will come in many forms. In sights that are mysterious to our eyes, in sounds that are grating on our ears, in ways of thinking that will crash like thunder in our hearts and minds. But we must learn to ride each one of these horses of change. It is what the future asks of us and our survival depends on it. ~ Richard Wagamese,

680:I want no thunder or lightning to remind me of my God, nor am I as apt to bethink on most of all His goodness in trouble and tribulations as on a calm, solemn, quiet day in a forest, when His voice is heard in the creaking of a dead branch or in the song of a bird, as much in my ears at least as it is ever heard in uproar and gales. ~ James Fenimore Cooper,

681:Rest assured,” he said, when he managed to find his voice, “there will always be a position for you on my ship.” Her face brightened with her clever, beautiful smile. “Will you let me climb up into the rigging? Reef the sails?” A burst of thunder rolled through him. “Absolutely not.” She laughed again. “As if you could stop me. ~ Alexandra Bracken,

682:They roar with Dharma-thunder; They strike the Dharma-drum; They spread clouds of love, and pour ambrosial rain. Their giant footsteps nourish limitless beings; Sravaka, Pratyeka, Bodhisattva--all are enlightened; Five kinds of human nature all are emancipated. ~ Hsuan Chueh of Yung Chia, 34 - They roar with Dharma-thunder (from The Shodoka) ,

683:And in that moment, I saw the horizon unbounded and I reeled with the vastness of it. What new shores would I discover if I could only travel those few inches? A storm—a tempest in the pit of my stomach—but I was the skiff tossed on the waves, and my father’s lesson like thunder in my ears: don’t get too close. Still, the temptation was there. ~ Heidi Heilig,

684:My friend wants to get moving and so do I,' Eddie said. 'We've got miles to go yet.' I know that. It's on your face, son. Like a scar.' Eddie was fascinated by the idea of duty and ka as something that left a mark, something that might look like decoration to one eye and disfigurement to another. Outside, thunder cracked and lightning flashed. ~ Stephen King,

685:The air seemed heavy, like the atmosphere between the first flash of lightning and the first peal of thunder, when the rain has formed miles above but has not yet reached the earth, when fat drops are descending by the millions, compressing the air below them as one last warning of their drenching approach. I stood in light-headed anticipation. ~ Dean Koontz,

686:Your life began in the heart & mind of the Infinite. Mentally relive the days when as a child you ran free, when there were infinite possibilities of what you could feel, accomplish, and see in the world. Allow for the energy of your remembered freedom to thunder through you, and you will free your self from the false obstacles your adult. ~ Michael Beckwith,

687:The only certainty was that they took everything with them: money, December breezes, the bread knife, thunder at 3 in the afternoon, the scent of jasmines, love. All that remained were the dusty almond trees, the reverberating streets, the houses of wood and roofs of rusting tin with their taciturn inhabitants, devastated by memories. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez,

688:In crime the egoist has hitherto asserted himself and mocked at the sacred; the break with the sacred, or rather of the sacred, may become general. A revolution never returns, but an immense, reckless, shameless, conscienceless, proud—crime, doesn't it rumble in the distant thunder, and don't you see how the sky grows ominously silent and gloomy? ~ Max Stirner,

689:How great You are, My God! You are beyond my understanding! The number of Your years is past finding out. You draw up the drops of water, which distill as rain to the streams; the clouds pour down their moisture and abundant showers fall on mankind. Who can understand how You spread out the clouds, how You thunder from Your pavilion? (Job 36:26–29) ~ Beth Moore,

690:I can sometimes lose track of time when staring at a sky filled with wind-whipped clouds, and when I hear thunder rumbling, I always draw near the window to watch for lightning. When the next brilliant flash illuminates the sky, I often find myself filled with longing, though I’m at a loss to tell you what it is that I feel my life is missing. ~ Nicholas Sparks,

691:I love storms and how the whole house shakes. When I was a kid, there would be lots of thunder and lightning storms, and they would knock the electricity out. We had this oil lantern that had been in my grandfather's homestead at the turn of the century, before there even was electricity. He'd bring it down off the top shelf, and we'd always play cards. ~ Feist,

692:You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. That day in Moscow, it will all come true, when, for the last time, I take my leave, And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, Leaving my shadow still to be with you. ~ Anna Akhmatova,

693:This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light on the stars requires time; deeds though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than the most distant stars - and yet they have done it themselves. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

694:When Archer spoke in an awed whisper, he confirmed my suspicion. “That’s crazy insane, like completely senseless, but it might work.” Daemon sent him a killer look. “Gee, why don’t you go ahead and tell them what I’m thinking.” “Oh, no.” Archer waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t want to steal your thunder.” “I think you already did, so— ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,

695:When I was young, I thought it was thunder that kills people. But when I learnt physics in St. Paul's High School, I discovered that it is rather the lightning that does the killing. The voice of the thunder itself is just a noise. The lightning is the poise. I learnt to take the course of my life, not by violence but rather with intelligence. ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

696:Without a word to anyone, Eli and Cyrus straddle their bikes and strap on their helmets. That one act causes everyone else to mount up and start their motorcycles. Soon the yard shakes with the thunder of angry engines. Cyrus pulls out with Eli on his right. They head onto Thunder Road toward the main drag and the guys follow behind them in pairs. ~ Katie McGarry,

697:I couldn't sleep for the longest time. I lay in bed watching the wreaths of sea mist sweep by. At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden peals of thunder that the whole sky overhead trembled under the shock of the footsteps of the storm. ~ Bram Stoker,

698:I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness; I hear the approaching thunder that, one day will destroy us too. I feel the suffering of millions. And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better, that this cruelty too shall end, that peace and tranquility will return once more.” —Anne Frank ~ Hourly History,

699:/Farsi & Turkish The minute I'm disappointed, I feel encouraged. When I'm ruined, I'm healed. When I'm quiet and solid as the ground, then I talk the low tones of thunder for everyone. [1475.jpg] -- from Open Secret: Versions of Rumi, Translated by Coleman Barks / Translated by John Moyne ~ Jalaluddin Rumi, The minute Im disappointed, I feel encouraged ,

700:AT DAWN, a juggernaut of thunder wheeled over the stony heavens in a spark-throwing tumult. Rain fell softly on town cupolas, chuckled from rainspouts, and spoke in strange subterranean tongues beneath the windows where Jim and Will knew fitful dreams, slipping out of one, trying another for size, but finding all cut from the same dark, mouldered cloth. ~ Ray Bradbury,

701:Let every fart count as a peal of thunder for liberty. Let every fart remind the nation of how much it has let pass out of its control. It is a small gesture, but one that can be very effective - especially in a large crowd. So fart, and if you must, fart often. But always fart without apology. Fart for freedom, fart for liberty - and fart proudly. ~ Benjamin Franklin,

702:I had the feeling I always have when God and death become entwined—that God is stepping in to steal the thunder of a human affair, a glorious union of flesh and blood, the miracle of two bodies making a new life out of love, a strictly human life that, like all lives, can end only in death. Human love. Human death. What’s that got to do with God? Outside, ~ Jan Ellison,

703:Again, now, now, again Plashes the rain in heavy gouts, The crinkled lightning Seems ever brightening... And loud and long Again the thunder shouts His battle-song, - One quivering flash, One wildering crash, Followed by silence dead and dull, As if the cloud, let go, Leapt bodily below To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow, And then a total lull. ~ James Russell Lowell,

704:My friend wants to get moving and so do I,' Eddie said. 'We've got miles to go yet.' I know that. It's on your face, son. Like a scar.' Eddie was fascinated by the idea of duty and ka as something that left a mark, something that might look like decoration to one eye and disfigurement to another. Outside, thunder cracked and lightning flashed. ~ Stephen King,

705:the way it sounded under the bridge when the sleigh passed over, the thunder of the horses' hooves mingled with the brighter notes of the jangling bells; the way the blue bowl of the sky arched overhead; the way the air filled my lungs, so cold that it hurt; the way the enticing scent of hot chocolate drifted from the little gazebo on the island. ~ Heather Vogel Frederick,

706:Bob Dylan was really mad with my wife. I had asked by Rolling Stone - the only assignment I ever had for them - to do a story on the Rolling Thunder Review, which was Bob Dylan, Alan Ginsberg, Joan Baez and a host of stars. My wife, some weeks before, had written in The New York Times that The Kid wasn't The Kid anymore and he wasn't all that winning anymore. ~ Nat Hentoff,

707:Heaven, too, was very near to them in those days. God's direct agency was to be seen in the thunder and the rainbow, the whirlwind and the lightning. To the believer, clouds of angels and confessors, and martyrs, armies of the sainted and the saved, were ever stooping over their struggling brethren upon earth, raising, encouraging, and supporting them. ~ Arthur Conan Doyle,

708:One night I was on my [Navy] ship... on my first cruise crossing the North Atlantic in a horrible storm, chained to the rails so I wouldn't fall overboard. In this lightning and thunder and hail, in this misery, I shouted at the heavens with my little squeaky voice and said, Someday I'm going to be a photographer! It was as big an epiphany as any man ever had. ~ Ralph Gibson,

709:He came to lying on his back with sunlight pouring down into his face and the murmur of running water close by. There was a brilliant ache in his optic nerve, and a steady, painless throbbing at the base of his skull—the distant thunder of an approaching migraine. He rolled onto his side and pushed up into a sitting position, tucking his head between his knees. ~ Blake Crouch,

710:Now when the men talk, their voices burn in the air, making smoke all over the place. We hear about change, about new country, about democracy, about elections and what-what. They talk and talk, the men, lick their lips and look at the dead watches on their wrists and shake their hands and slap each other and laugh like they have swallowed thunder. ~ NoViolet Bulawayo,

711:Everything is upon a great scale upon this continent. The rivers are immense, the climate violent in heat and cold, the prospects magnificent, the thunder and lightning tremendous. The disorders incident to the country make every constitution tremble. Our own blunders here, our misconduct, our losses, our disgraces, our ruin, are on a great scale. —LORD CARLISLE, ~ Neil Gaiman,

712:Nature Is What We See— "Nature" is what we see— The Hill—the Afternoon— Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee— Nay—Nature is Heaven— Nature is what we hear— The Bobolink—the Sea— Thunder—the Cricket— Nay—Nature is Harmony— Nature is what we know— Yet have no art to say— So impotent Our Wisdom is To her Simplicity. ~ Emily Dickinson,

713:So even as we see the horror of death, may we be reminded that in the end, love wins. Mercy triumphs. Life is more powerful than death. And even those who have committed great violence can have the image of God come to life again within them as they hear the whisper of love. May the whisper of love grow louder than the thunder of violence. May we love loudly. ~ Shane Claiborne,

714:You walked into this village with a thunder tiger beside you. You have slain demons with your own hands. Are the old myths really that hard to believe? 'They wouldn't be myths otherwise, would they?' 'Then have a care, Yukiko-chan,' Daichi smiled. 'Keeping the company of the last arashitora in Shima sounds like an excellent way to become a myth yourself. ~ Jay Kristoff,

715:Sokolov paused, trying to find words to describe a sensation that is essentially indescribable. Elizabeth Marshall Thomas could have helped him here: on the African savanna, she explains in The Tribe of Tiger, when thunder rolls, lions will roar back. What other creature, besides the lion, the tiger, and the whale, can answer Creation in its own language? ~ John Vaillant,

716:Thunder bellowed, barely audible above the explosion of wind and wave. How did this tiny brig withstand such a beating? Surely the timbers would burst any moment, splintering and filling the room with the mad gush of the sea. Locking her arms with the ladies on either side, she closed her eyes as the galloping ship tossed them like rag dolls over the hard deck. ~ MaryLu Tyndall,

717:Among items in the glass cold case were cheesecake, marzipan candies, The Owl & Moon's famous Chocolate Cherry Thunder fudge, and a round of sharp cheddar for the apple tarts. The nonrefrigerated case held all manner of pastries, sweet rolls, and berry pies. When the buckwheat rolls came out of the oven they went directly into pink boxes tied with kite string. ~ Jo Ann Mapson,

718:Just think," I say, trying to calm her down. "The two of us naked in a car, but safe and sound all the same, kissing each other to the clap of thunder and the sound of the driving rain!" "This is impossible," she says. "But just think. Wouldn't you like, from this snug little shelter in the midst of cosmic rage, to stick your tongue out to the entire world? ~ Naguib Mahfouz,

719:In a year, I’ll be gone, and you’ll be nothing but some washout whose height of existence was in high school. You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought. I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars. ~ Penelope Douglas,

720:They parted—ne'er to meet again! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining— They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between;— But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been. ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge,

721:A shape across space beckoned her. Her spirits sank. She thought of the other world; the temporariness of this existence. Oh! The wall, a cold wall stood between this Emma and that; this stormy morning and the sprightly spring afternoon. She walked along the solid wall for an opening. There were no exits. None at all. The sky cracked up into terrifying thunder sounds. ~ Mehreen Ahmed,

722:Thunder There will be thunder then. Remember me. Say ‘ She asked for storms.’ The entire world will turn the colour of crimson stone, and your heart, as then, will turn to fire. That day, in Moscow, a true prophecy, when for the last time I say goodbye, soaring to the heavens that I longed to see, leaving my shadow here in the sky. ~ Anna Akhmatova,

723:To lift an autumn hair is no sign of great strength; to see the sun and moon is no sign of sharp sight; to hear the noise of thunder is no sign of a quick ear. What the ancients called a clever fighter is one who not only wins, but excels in winning with ease. Hence his victories bring him neither reputation for wisdom nor credit for courage. ~ Sun Tzu,

724:The old truth that Calvin preached, that Augustine preached, that Paul preached, is the truth that I must preach to-day, or else be false to my conscience and my God. I cannot shape the truth; I know of no such thing as paring off the rough edges of a doctrine. John Knox's gospel is my gospel. That which thundered through Scotland must thunder through England again. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

725:Among the hills, when you sit in the cool shade of the white poplars, sharing the peace and serenity of distant fields and meadows - then let your heart say in silence, "God rests in reason." And when the storm comes, and the mighty wind shakes the forest, and thunder and lightning proclaim the majesty of the sky, - then let your heart say in awe, "God moves in passion. ~ Khalil Gibran,

726:The survivors ran through the fields, escaping From themselves, knowing they wouldn't return For a hundred years. Before them were spread Those quicksands where a tree changes into nothing, Into an anti-tree, where no borderline Separates a shape from a shape, and where, Amid thunder, the golden house of is Collapses, and the word becoming ascends. ~ Czes aw Mi osz,

727:With the evening the air was so full of their song that it was a kind of roaring silence. It was a veil, a background, and its sudden disappearance, as after a clap of thunder, was a shocking thing…In their millions the frog songs seemed to have a beat and a cadence, and perhaps it is the ears’ function to do this just as it is the eyes’ business to make stars twinkle. ~ John Steinbeck,

728:You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. That day in Moscow, it will all come true, when, for the last time, I take my leave, And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, Leaving my shadow still to be with you. ~ Anna Akhmatova,

729:The whole life-effort of man is to get his life into direct contact with the elemental life of the cosmos, mountain life, cloud life, thunder life, air life, earth life, sun life. To come into immediate felt contact, and so derive energy, power and a dark sort of joy. This effort into sheer naked contact, without an intermediary or mediator is the root meaning of religion. ~ D H Lawrence,

730:Thunderstorms were what death, and dramatic events, generally should be like, but usually were not; the idea that our life’s dramas rarely look as dramatic as they are. Our most cataclysmic moments are typically free of gravitas, of necessary thunder; a person dies, but instead of the sky darkening and lightning striking, the sun continues to shine and the birds to sing. ~ Alain de Botton,

731:Bright, dreadful flashes of lightning rent the darkness and Kali's reply was drowned by a peal of thunder which shook heaven and the wilderness. Simultaneously a whirlwind broke out, tugged the boughs of the tree swept away in the twinkling of an eye the camp-fire, seized the embers, still burning under the ashes, and carried them with sheaves of sparks into the jungle. ~ Henryk Sienkiewicz,

732:Courage~ What makes the flag on the mast to wave? What makes the elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist, or the dusky dusk? What makes the muskrat guard his musk? Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder? Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder? Courage! What makes the Hottentot so hot? What puts the "ape" in apricot?~Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz ~ L Frank Baum,

733:I thought of you and how you love this beauty, And walking up the long beach all alone I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder As you and I once heard their monotone. Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me The cold and sparkling silver of the sea -- We two will pass through death and ages lengthen Before you hear that sound again with me. ~ Sara Teasdale,

734:I fell into a restless sleep in which my dreams carried me away over misty valleys and moonlit woodlands toward a fairy glen, where I watched their beautiful midnight revels in silent awe as I whispered the words of my favorite poem. " 'You shall hear a sound like thunder, / And a veil shall be withdrawn, / When her eyes grow wide with wonder, / On that hill-top, in that dawn. ~ Hazel Gaynor,

735:Elise thinks of Denise's laugh cracking like thunder over the Turnbull houses, the paprika in her chili, the way her bra cuts into her back, the powdery heat of her body when they'd lie on the bed in the summertime, the afternoon too hot for anything but gossip and game shows. Her mother played with Elise's hair like it was her own, absentmindedly twirling it as they smoked. ~ Jardine Libaire,

736:the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for. ~ Natalie Babbitt,

737:As I work in the afternoon on committing to paper some of my morning's thoughts, I find myself just about to close on the knotty question of whether or not I believe in God. In fact I am about to type, 'I do not believe in God', when the sky goes black as ink, there is a thunderclap and a huge crash of thunder and a downpour of epic proportions. I never do complete the sentence. ~ Michael Palin,

738:For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. The feeling in the nation must be quickened, the conscience of the nation must be roused, the propriety of the nation must be startled, the hypocrisy of the nation must be exposed: and its crimes against God and man must be denounced. ~ Frederick Douglass,

739:Under none of the accredited ghostly circumstances, and environed by none of the conventional ghostly surroundings, did I first make acquaintance with the house which is the subject of this Christmas piece. I saw it in the daylight, with the sun upon it. There was no wind, no rain, no lightning, no thunder, no awful or unwonted circumstance, of any kind, to heighten its effect. ~ Charles Dickens,

740:I had come to the canyon with expectations. I wanted to see snowy egrets flying against the black schist at dusk; I saw blue-winged teal against the green waters at dawn. I had wanted to hear thunder rolling in the thousand-foot depths; I heard the guttural caw of four ravens…what any of us had come to see or do fell away. We found ourselves at each turn with what we had not imagined. ~ Barry Lopez,

741:I see thunderstorms around us now, but these are just baby storms,” the psychic told her. “The mother storm is coming. When she arrives, her lightning will scorch the land, her thunder will deafen us, and her heavy rain will drown us all. The storm will last for three months and many will die. Those who escape will find no one to turn to—every friendly face will have perished. ~ Immacul e Ilibagiza,

742:Everything is upon a great scale upon this continent. The rivers are immense, the climate violent in heat and cold, the prospects magnificent, the thunder and lightning tremendous. The disorders incident to the country make every constitution tremble. Our own blunders here, our misconduct, our losses, our disgraces, our ruin, are on a great scale. —LORD CARLISLE, TO GEORGE SELWYN, 1778 ~ Neil Gaiman,

743:In the morning stillness, when the world is just waking up and your conscious mind hasn't fully taken over, you may feel a connection or passageway to another world, and a feeling that something is about to happen in yours. It's like a quiet storm is coming. You can feel the distant rumble of thunder on the horizon, yet you have no idea of the deluge your life is about to experience. ~ Padma Lakshmi,

744:The battle roar settled to a rolling thunder, which was a single long explosion. In the regiment there was a peculiar kind of hesitation denoted in the attitudes of the men. They were worn, exhausted, having slept but little and labored much. They rolled their eyes toward the advancing battle as they stood awaiting the shock. Some shrank and flinched. They stood as men tied to stakes. ~ Stephen Crane,

745:Think for a moment of the great agents and engines of our civilization, and then think what shadowy ideas they all once were. The wheels of the steamship turned as swiftly as they do now, but as silent and unsubstantial as the motions of the inventor's thought; and in the noiseless loom of his meditation were woven the sinews of the printing-press, whose thunder shakes the world. ~ Edwin Hubbel Chapin,

746:Aha, I thought. Even among the pandai there were frustrated musicians. Amax suddenly reminded me of my father, Zeus, when he came storming down the hallway on Mount Olympus (literally storming, with thunder, lightning, and torrential rain) and ordered me to stop playing my infernal zither music. A totally unfair demand. Everyone knows 2:00 a.m. is the optimal time to practice the zither. ~ Rick Riordan,

747:Thunder is no longer the voice of an angry god... No river contains a spirit... no snake the embodiment of wisdom, no mountain cave the home of a great demon. No voices now speak to man from stones, plants and animals, nor does he speak to them thinking they can hear. His contact with nature has gone, and with it has gone the profound emotional energy that this symbolic connection supplied. ~ Carl Jung,

748:The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that ’round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

749:Old Lights include the resurgent fundamentalists in every religion who put a freeze on history and fortify their adherents against the "new dark age" in which they are forced to live. "Back to the Bible," Old Lights shout; "back to the Koran," Old Lights thunder. But not everything Old Lights say is wrong. Much is right. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day, the old adage reminds us. ~ Leonard Sweet,

750:Twelfth Song of Thunder The voice that beautifies the land! The voice above, The voice of thunder Within the dark cloud Again and again it sounds, The voice that beautifies the land. The voice that beautifies the land! The voice below, The voice of the grasshopper Among the plants Again and again it sounds, The voice that beautifies the land. ~ Anonymous,

751:We can never have enough of nature. We must be refreshed by the sight of inexhaustible vigor, vast and titanic features, the sea-cost with its wrecks, the wilderness with its living and its decaying trees, the thunder-cloud, and the rain which lasts three weeks and produces freshets. We need to witness our own limits transgressed, and some life pasturing freely where we never wander. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

752:Writing a story isn’t about making your peaceful fantasies come true. The whole point of the story is the character arc. You didn’t think joy could change a person, did you? Joy is what you feel when the conflict is over. But it’s conflict that changes a person.” His voice was like thunder now. “You put your characters through hell. You put them through hell. That’s the only way we change. ~ Donald Miller,

753:Then it studies all the awesome expanse which lies between heaven and earth – this nearer space turbulent with thunder, lightning, gales of wind, and falling rain, snow and hail. Finally, having scoured the lower areas it bursts through to the heights and enjoys the noblest sight of divine things and, mindful of its own immortality, it ranges over all that has been and will be throughout all ages. ~ Seneca,

754:...that is how the liars remain in control. Through one's silence and fear of alienation, the truth is buried deeper under the soil of fabrication and deceit. Chaos rules because eventually, it's easier to cling to whatever debris is left than to walk into the storm, taste the rain and greet the thunder with your fists balled and your courage lit like a fire that will never be put out. ~ Laurel Dewey,

755:it was as bright as glory, and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash, and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down-stairs—where ~ Mark Twain,

756:Fire causes burning, lightning causes thunder, winds cause waves, and gravity causes bodies to fall. Such connections between an effect and its cause form the cornerstone of scientific thinking, both modern and classical. But this notion of causality is one which is specifically rejected by Asharite doctrine, and the most articulate and effective opponent of physical causality was AI-Ghazzali ~ Pervez Hoodbhoy,

757:I used to think the power of words was inexhaustible, That how we said the world was how it was, and how it would be, I used to imagine that word-sway and word thunder Would silence the Silence and all that, That words were the Word, That language could lead us inexplicably to grace, As though it were geographical. I used to think these things when I was young. I still do. ~ Charles Wright,

758:When sad she brings the thunder And her tears, they bring the rain When ill she feeds a poison To us all to fell her pain Her smiles they bring the sunshine And the laughter and the wind And the birds they go on singing And the world is whole again. "Smile, sweet Sunday," Wednesday whispered in her ear. "The birds need your love so they can lift their wings. ~ Alethea Kontis,

759:Air of dust For a moment I was a storm cloud, All righteous booming thunder; All sharp and pinning, Dazzling. Once the flashing faded A sizzling prong sprang upwards. I was positively popped. The static situation Struck me Negatively, And I leaked out sulfur on the people Who dared hold up the sky. Strong storms are still boneless And mostly all alone. ~ Anonymous,

760:Doth not all nature around me praise God? If I were silent, I should be an exception to the universe. Doth not the thunder praise Him as it rolls like drums in the march of the God of armies? Do not the mountains praise Him when the woods upon their summits wave in adoration? Doth not the lightning write His name in letters of fire? Hath not the whole earth a voice? And shall I, can I, silent be? ~ Charles Spurgeon,

761:On the final stretch of the road we passed three or four hammer-stones set on the verges to honour the thunder-god. Snorri checked for rune-stones around each, but found only a stray black pebble, river-smoothed and wide enough to cover his palm, bearing a single rune. Perhaps local children made off with the rest. 'Thuriaz.' He let it fall. 'Hmmm?' 'Thorns.' He shrugged. 'It means nothing. ~ Mark Lawrence,

762:Courage~ L Frank Baum What makes the flag on the mast to wave? What makes the elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist, or the dusky dusk? What makes the muskrat guard his musk? Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder? Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder? Courage! What makes the Hottentot so hot? What puts the "ape" in apricot?~ L Frank BaumCowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz ~ L Frank Baum,

763:Persian, Dilorom told me, had only one word for crying, whereas Old Uzbek had one hundred. Old Uzbek had words for wanting to cry and not being able to, for being caused to sob by something, for loudly crying like thunder in the clouds, for crying in gasps, for weeping inwardly or secretly, for crying ceaselessly in a high voice, for crying in hiccups, and for crying while uttering the sound 'hay hay. ~ Elif Batuman,

764:According to the most modern idea, a real myth has nothing to do with religion. It is an explanation of something in nature; how, for instance, any and everything in the universe came into existence: men, animals, this or that tree or flower, the sun, the moon, the stars, storms, eruptions, earthquakes, all that is and all that happens. Thunder and lightning are caused when Zeus hurls his thunderbolt. ~ Edith Hamilton,

765:Elephants, it turns out, are surprisingly stealthy. As the sunlight fades, other species declare their presence. Throngs of zebras and wildebeests thunder by in the distance, trailing dust clouds. Cape buffalo snort and raise their horns and position themselves in front of their young. Giraffes stare over treetops, their huge brown eyes blinking, then lope away in seeming slow motion. But no elephants. ~ Thomas French,

766:Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drenched our teeples, drowned the cocks! You sulphurour and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once That make ingrateful man! ~ William Shakespeare,

767:It looked like it was going to rain. They always came this time of year, the rains. I heard the distant thunder. As we were walking toward Dante's house, it began to rain. And then it began to pour. I looked at Dante. "I won't run if you don't." "I won't run." So we walked in the rain. I wanted to walk faster, but instead I slowed down. I looked at Dante. "Can you take it?" He smiled. ~ Benjamin Alire S enz,

768:Suddenly, a light from heaven burned down upon the two angels and they were gone, translated up to heaven. • • • • • All along the Valley of Siddim, the long, gigantic rift began to spasm. Large fractures opened in the crust. Massive amounts of heat and gas escaped into the air. The land rolled like a tsunami wave of earth. Up above, lightning joined the thunder in the black heap of cumulus storm clouds. ~ Brian Godawa,

769:You Will Hear Thunder You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. That day in Moscow, it will all come true, when, for the last time, I take my leave, And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, Leaving my shadow still to be with you. ~ Anna Akhmatova,

770:If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. This struggle may be a moral one; or it may be a physical one; or it may be both moral and physical; but it must be a struggle. ~ Frederick Douglass,

771:I need to pull away from this - She gestured between them languidly - "because When I'm with you, I lose my balance. I don't feel calm and happy. She leaned forward, and Kane swallowed down his immediate urge to leap across the table and crush her thin lips under his. "When I am with you," Claire said, her accent rolling through the words like thunder, "I am a starving lion, raging at my captivity. ~ Louisa Edwards,

772:Bones Sling me under the sea. Pack me down in the salt and wet. No farmer’s plow shall touch my bones. No Hamlet hold my jaws and speak How jokes are gone and empty is my mouth. Long, green-eyed scavengers shall pick my eyes, Purple fish play hide-and-seek, And I shall be song of thunder, crash of sea, Down on the floors of salt and wet. Sling me … under the sea. ~ Carl Sandburg,

773:Bowman, too, had been born in a great city, in the French Hospital in Manhattan, in the burning heat of August and very early in the morning when all geniuses are born, as Pearson once told him. There had been an unbreathing stillness, and near dawn faint, distant thunder. It grew slowly louder, then gusts of cooler air before a tremendous storm broke with lightning and sheets of rain, and when it was over, ~ James Salter,

774:I do not believe that a League of Nations, or a Kellog Pact, or any Disarmamnt Conference, will ever rescue our poor remnant of civilisation from the threatening forces of destruction, until we can somehow impart to the rational processes of constructive thought and experiment that element of sanctified loveliness which, like superb sunshine breaking through thunder-clouds, from time to time glorifies war. ~ Vera Brittain,

775:Those who profess to favor freedom and yet depreciate agitation, are people who want crops without ploughing the ground; they want rain without thunder and lightning; they want the ocean without the roar of its many waters. The struggle may be a moral one, or it may be a physical one, or it may be both. But it must be a struggle. Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will. ~ Frederick Douglass,

776:Thunder rumbled. My heart beat faster. I turned away from Evernight for the last time and looked back at the flower as it trembled upon its branch. A single petal was torn away by the wind. Pushing my hands through the thorns, I felt lashes of pain across my skin, but i kept going determined. But when my fingertip touched the flower, it instantly darkened, withering and drying as each petal turned black. ~ Claudia Gray,

777:Horrific as it was, the present dark, I was afraid to leave it for the other, permanent dark – jelly and bloat, the muddy pit. I had seen the shadow of it on Bunny’s face – stupid terror; the whole world opening upside down; his life exploding in a thunder of crows and the sky expanding empty over his stomach like a white ocean. Then nothing. Rotten stumps, sowbugs crawling in the fallen leaves. Dirt and dark. ~ Donna Tartt,

778:Then the storm came swiftly, first falling from the heavens, then doubly falling in torrents from the mountains and washing loud down the roads and stone ditches; with it came a dark, frightening sky and savage filaments of lightning and world-splitting thunder, while ragged, destroying clouds fled along past the hotel. Mountains and lake disappeared - the hotel crouched amid tumult, chaos and darkness. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

779:In high school, Tom won rave reviews for his rousing performance of Curly in Oklahoma! while I was relegated to the understudy for Laurey, a role I did not once bring to fruition while pining for Tom from the chorus. His custom-tailored suit for our wedding was far nicer than my dress, and it was all anyone could talk about at our ceremony. If anyone could steal the thunder of my cancer diagnosis, it was Tom. ~ Camille Pag n,

780:In eloquence, the great triumphs of the art are when the orator is lifted above himself; when consciously he makes himself the mere tongue of the occasion and the hour, and says what cannot but be said. Hence the term abandonment, to describe the self-surrender of the orator. Not his will, but the principle on which he is horsed, the great connection and crisis of events, thunder in the ear of the crowd. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

781:The thunder traveled over the ship, from west to east, with prolonged reverberations, before it moved away with its clouds, leaving the sea, by mid-afternoon, bathed in a strange auroral light, which turned its as smooth and iridescent as a mountain lake. The bow of the Arrow became a plough, breaking up the tranquility of the surface with the frothy arabesques of its wake. Pg 301 Explosion in the Cathedral ~ Alejo Carpentier,

782:Prayer For A Prayer Dearest one, when I am dead Never seek to follow me. Never mount the quiet hill Where the copper leaves are still, As my heart is, on the tree Standing at my narrow bed. Only of your tenderness, Pray a little prayer at night. Say: "I have forgiven nowI, so weak and sad; O Thou, Wreathed in thunder, robed in light, Surely Thou wilt do no less." ~ Dorothy Parker,

783:Thunder boomed overhead. Lightning flashed, and the bars on the nearest window burst into sizzling, melted stubs of iron. Jason flew in like Peter Pan, electricity sparking around him and his gold sword steaming. Leo whistled appreciatively. “Man, you just wasted an awesome entrance.” Jason frowned. He noticed the hog-tied Kerkopes. “What the—” “All by myself,” Leo said. “I’m special that way. ~ Rick Riordan,

784:In eloquence, the great triumphs of the art are when the orator is lifted above himself; when consciously he makes himself the mere tongue of the occasion and the hour, and says what cannot but be said. Hence the term "abandonment" to describe the self- surrender of the orator. Not his will, but the principle on which he is horsed, the great connection and crisis of events, thunder in the ear of the crowd. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

785:It was worth blood and the fear of death to see her fall in love with him. Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love, so light she probably didn’t notice it herself. It wasn’t dramatic, like some bolt of lightning with a crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and the spark fades almost too fast for you to see. But still, you know it’s there, down where you can’t see, kindling. ~ Anonymous,

786:You got to understand the god thing. It’s not magic. Not exactly. It’s about focus. It’s about being you, but the you that people believe in. It’s about being the concentrated, magnified essence of you. It’s about becoming thunder, or the power of a running horse, or wisdom. You take all the belief, all the prayers, and they become a kind of certainty, something that lets you become bigger, cooler, more than human. ~ Neil Gaiman,

787:As he started up Liverpool Road, the thunder came and then thick drops of rain, reprimanding, chastening. He turned up his collar and ran past the Waitrose and the Sainsbury’s, dodging last-minute shoppers. Daniel was a runner and so he did not feel the strain in his chest or his legs, even when the rain fell heavier, soaking the shoulders and the back of his jacket, causing him to run faster, and faster. Inside ~ Lisa Ballantyne,

788:I, too, like the sound of the rain on the roof. I also like the lightning. It's like some great cosmic flashlight. It makes me think that someone is searching for me. And I don't mind the BAM of thunder because that makes me think that, perhaps, I have been found. That's the way a good book makes me feel, as if I have been found, understood, seen. --Maureen O'Toople in the short story "Your Question for Author Here ~ Jon Scieszka,

789:The Poor Old Cannon Upbroke the sun In red-gold foam; Thus spoke the gun At the Soldier's Home: "Whenever I hear Blue thunder speak My voice sounds clear But little and weak. "And when the proud Young cockerels crow My voice sounds loud, But gentle and low. "When the mocking-bird Prolongs his note I cannot be heard Though I split my throat." ~ Elinor Morton Wylie,

790:Water and air, rain and clouds, they too have been here for ever, but they are such an integral part of life that their ancientness is never apparent in our thoughts or emotions, contrary to lightning and thunder, which only occur now and then, during brief intervals which we are at once familiar with and foreign to, just as we are at once familiar with and foreign to ourselves and the world we are a part of. ~ Karl Ove Knausg rd,

791:And if there’s one thing in this world I’ve ever known for sure, it’s that this girl is gonna crush me like a small bug, leave me so fucking broken there’ll be body bags beneath my eyes from nights I cried so hard the stars died. But I’m like, go ahead. I’m all yours. I would kiss you in the middle of the ocean during a lightning storm, cause I’d rather be left for dead than left to wonder what thunder sounds like. ~ Andrea Gibson,

792:All he had loved, and moulded into thought, From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound, Lamented Adonais. Morning sought Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground, Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day; Afar the melancholy thunder moaned, Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

793:Hey,” I say. He shifts his eyes to me, then back to the ceiling. “Terry,” he says. “You are not who I expected to see.” “Yeah, I know.” I sit down with my back to him, on the edge of the bed. Thunder rumbles in the distance. It’s been threatening rain all morning, but the streets are still dry. “So,” I say. “Charity seems nice. How did she wind up falling into your orbit?” Anders sighs. “She works at the Green Goose. ~ Edward Ashton,

794:We like to believe, or pretend, we know what we are doing in our lives. It can be a lie. Winds blow, waves carry us, rain drenches a man caught in the open at night, lightning shatters the sky and sometimes his heart, thunder crashes into him bringing the awareness he will die. We stand up, as best we can under that. We move forward as best we can, hoping for light, kindness, mercy, for ourselves and those we love. ~ Guy Gavriel Kay,

795:May 29th over the dark and stormy country that is western Illinois tonight; farmers backsore with plantings sleep like the dead below and dream their quicksilver dreams and who knows what may move in their barns and their cellars and their fields as the lightning walks and the thunder talks? No one knows these things; they know only that power is loose in the night, and the air is crazy with the big volts of the storm. ~ Stephen King,

796:Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter... Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap, - You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat.... Look! look! that livid flash! And instantly follows the rattling thunder, As if some cloud-crag, split asunder, Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash, On the Earth, which crouches in silence under; And now a solid gray wall of rain Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile. ~ James Russell Lowell,

797:The Light Of The World Now burn, new born to the world, Doubled-naturéd name, The heaven-flung, heart-fleshed, maiden-furled Miracle-in-Mary-of-flame, Mid-numbered He in three of the thunder-throne! Not a dooms-day dazzle in his coming nor dark as he came; Kind, but royally reclaiming his own; A released shower, let flash to the shire, not a lightning of fire hard-hurled. ~ Evelyn Underhill,

798:As I was walking in the fields, the thought came over me with almost overwhelming power, that every one of my flock must soon be in heaven or hell. Oh how I wished that I had a tongue like thunder, that I might make all hear; or that I had a frame like iron, that I might visit every one and say, Escape for thy life! Ah sinner! You little know how I fear that you will lay the blame of your damnation at my door. ~ Robert Murray M Cheyne,

799:It was worth blood and the fear of death to see her fall in love with him. Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love, so light she probably didn’t notice it herself. It wasn’t dramatic, like some bolt of lightning with a crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and the spark fades almost too fast for you to see. But still, you know it’s there, down where you can’t see, kindling. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

800:Summer Steadman,” came his voice of distant thunder, so tender Summer’s heart ached with the beauty of the moment, “the God we serve has brought us together. He has opened my heart to loving you with a love that endures. You would do me much honor if you would agree to become my wife.” Warm tears ran down Summer’s cheeks. She could not find her voice, but she gave an eager nod and allowed her smile to speak for her. ~ Kim Vogel Sawyer,

801:He had no one but himself to blame, for he’d opened himself up to it. Just a fraction at first, like a crack in a window. But the funny thing was, once you welcomed in a breeze, there was no stopping what came next. A wind, a storm, thunder and lightning, until you could no longer reach the window to close it—and didn’t really want to anyway. That’s what this new darkness was. Evil in its purest form... -Paris ~ Gena Showalter,

802:If you roll the dice often enough you always get the numbers you want. If I tell you the sun will shine tomorrow and that it will rain and there will be snow and that clouds will cover the sky and that wind will blow and that it will be a calm day and that thunder will deafen us, then one of those things will turn out to be true and you'll forget the rest because you want to believe that I really can tell the future. ~ Bernard Cornwell,

803:Is it not curious, that so vast a being as the whale should see the world through so small an eye, and hear the thunder through an ear which is smaller than a hare's? But if his eyes were broad as the lens of Herschel's great telescope; and his ears capacious as the porches of cathedrals; would that make him any longer of sight, or sharper of hearing? Not at all.—Why then do you try to "enlarge" your mind? Subtilize it ~ Herman Melville,

804:Is it not curious, that so vast a being as the whale should see the world through so small an eye, and hear the thunder through an ear which is smaller than a hare's? But if his eyes were broad as the lens of Herschel's great telescope; and his ears capacious as the porches of cathedrals; would that make him any longer of sight, or sharper of hearing? Not at all.-Why then do you try to 'enlarge' your mind? Subtilize it. ~ Herman Melville,

805:Is it not curious, that so vast a being as the whale should see the world through so small an eye, and hear the thunder through an ear which is smaller than a hare's? But if his eyes were broad as the lens of Herschel's great telescope; and his ears capacious as the porches of cathedrals; would that make him any longer of sight, or sharper of hearing? Not at all.—Why then do you try to "enlarge" your mind? Subtilize it. ~ Herman Melville,

806:Is it not curious, that so vast a being as the whale should see the world through so small an eye, and hear the thunder through an ear which is smaller than a hare's? But if his eyes were broad as the lens of Herschel's great telescope; and his ears capacious as the porches of cathedrals; would that make him any longer of sight, or sharper of hearing? Not at all.—Why then do you try to “enlarge” your mind? Subtilize it. ~ Herman Melville,

807:Oh, Christ. Word stuff, paper stuff, and that’s neither words nor paper in that goddam little coffin, that’s my son, my kid, my little dirty gap-toothed boy with the torn britches and the scabs on his knees, and he wasn’t ever intended to ride thunder and bridle lightning, no man is. Pulp heroes were all made of wood and they could do it, but Dan’s human and soft and easily broken. He hasn’t any business there, no man has. ~ Mike Resnick,

808:Milady felt a consolation in seeing nature partake of the disorder of her heart. The thunder growled in the air like the passion and anger in her thoughts. It appeared to her that the blast as it swept along disheveled her brow, as it bowed the branches of the trees and bore away their leaves. She howled as the hurricane howled; and her voice was lost in the great voice of nature, which also seemed to groan with despair. ~ Alexandre Dumas,

809:It was raining when Amarelle Parathis went out just after sunset to find a drink, and there was strange magic in the rain. It came down in pale lavenders and coppers and reds, soft lines like liquid dusk that turned luminescent mist on the warm pavement. The air itself felt like champagne bubbles breaking against the skin. Over the dark shapes of distant rooftops, blue-white lightning blazed, and stuttering thunder chased it. ~ Scott Lynch,

810:Most people”—whoever they are—have always lived at the whim of those willing to use violence to get their way. Most people, throughout history, have gone along with it, willing to be entertained by the spectacle of a beheading, the horror of a living person set on fire, the thunder of shock and awe. Nothing has changed in the modern world except that each of us has the potential to generate more destruction than ever before. ~ Linda Nagata,

811:Sally put his gun back in his pants. "Guess I flunked the estrogen test." We all stared at his crotch, and Grandma said what Lula and I were thinking. "I thought that bulge was your dingdong,"Grandma said. "Jesus," Sally said, "who do you think I am, Thunder the Wonder Horse? My gun wouldn't fit in my purse." "You need to get a smaller gun," Lula said. "Ruins your lines with that big old Glock in your drawers. ~ Janet Evanovich,

812:After a few more minutes of rain, which came in thick, silver sheets accompanied by spectacular lightning and noisy thunder, the storm passed over them, moving on into the valley below. The sun burst forth over the mountaintop, gilding the lush, wet summer greenery, touching the stone ruins with a golden light and bringing a new warmth to them. A red kite, catching a whorl in the wind, soared out over the valley to her right. ~ Bertrice Small,

813:A heavy thunder shattered the deep sleep in my head, so that I came to myself, like someone woken by force, and standing up, I moved my eyes, now refreshed, and looked round, steadily, to find out what place I was in. I found myself, in truth, on the brink of the valley of the sad abyss that gathers the thunder of an infinite howling. It was so dark, and deep, and clouded, that I could see nothing by staring into its depths. ~ Dante Alighieri,

814:As the last of the debris fell behind her and the crash of thunder rolled away through the city, as she came to the east end of the park, the once-dark sky paled, abruptly glaucous, and cataracts of rain fell hard, fat droplets hissing through the trees and grass, snapping off the pavement, plinking the metal hoods on trash cans, carrying with them the faint bleachy odor of ozone, a form of oxygen created by lightning’s alchemy. ~ Dean Koontz,

815:I was loved in my dreams last night. It echoed through me like thunder—I felt it through and through. When I woke up, I couldn’t shake the feeling of his arms around me and the sound of his voice, already half forgotten. The loss was indescribable. And I couldn’t help that feeling of certainty that I have felt this way before. Somewhere in time, throughout the ages, I was loved—I was loved and my eyes were wide open. ~ Lang Leav,

816:Those who profess to favor freedom and yet depreciate agitation are people who want crops without ploughing the ground; they want rain without thunder and lightning; they want the ocean without the roar of its many waters. The struggle may be a moral one, or it may be a physical one, or it may be both. But it must be a struggle. Power concedes nothing without a demand; it never has and it never will. —Frederick Douglass ~ Candace Cameron Bure,

817:Decker lifted his eyes skyward, expecting something to happen. He didn't know what, perhaps for the stars overhead to explode into shimmery fireworks, or for the sky to crack open and pour down rain and thunder to mark the moment. But nothing happened. The most important moment of his life arrived not with a bang as he'd always expected, but with the quiet rustle of wind through the trees and a serene breeze brushing his cheeks. ~ Lynsay Sands,

818:I'm cap'n here by 'lection. I'm cap'n here because I'm the best man by a long sea-mile. You won't fight, as gentlemen o' fortune should; then, by thunder, you'll obey, and you may lay to it! I like that boy, now; I never seen a better boy than that. He's more a man than any pair of rats of you in this here house, and what I say is this: let me see him that'll lay a hand on him--that's what I say, and you may lay to it. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,

819:When I was a child, all problems had ended with a single word from my father. A smile from him was sunshine, his scowl a bolt of thunder. He was smart, and generous, and honorable without fail. He could exile a trespasser, check my math homework, and fix the leaky bathroom sink, all before dinner. For the longest time, I thought he was invincible. Above the petty problems that plagued normal people. And now he was gone. ~ Rachel Vincent,

820:The beauty of the trees, the softness of the air, the fragrance of the grass, they speak to me. The summit of the mountain, the thunder of the sky, the rhythm of the sea, speaks to me. The faintness of the stars, the freshness of the morning, the dewdrop on the flower, speaks to me. The strength of the fire, the taste of the salmon, the trail of the sun, and the life that never goes away, they speak to me. And my heart soars. ~ Chief Dan George,

821:A sudden gust of rain blew over them and then another - as if small liquid clouds were bouncing along the land. Lightning entered the sea far off and the air blew full of crackling thunder. The table cloths blew around the pillars. They blew and blew and blew. The flags twisted around the red chairs like live things, the banners were ragged, the corners of the table tore off through the burbling billowing ends of the cloths. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

822:No one knows what capacities for doing and suffering he has in himself, until something comes to rouse them to activity: just as in a pond of still water, lying there like a mirror, there is no sign of the roar and thunder with which it can leap from the precipice, and yet remain what it is; or again, rise high in the air as a fountain. When water is as cold as ice, you can have no idea of the latent warmth contained in it. ~ Arthur Schopenhauer,

823:Whenever he put his fingers into it, it rattled with the trembling of his hand, and the sound was just like the sound of fire. I noticed this at the time and it seemed natural to me. I more or less assumed that the thunder and lightning were Creation tipping its hat to him as if to say, Glad to see you in the stands, Reverend, or maybe it said, Why Reverend, what in this grieving world are you doing here at a sporting event? ~ Marilynne Robinson,

824:You got to understand the god thing. It’s not magic. Not exactly. It’s about focus. It’s about being you, but the you that people believe in. It’s about being the concentrated, magnified essence of you. It’s about becoming thunder, or the power of a running horse, or wisdom. You take all the belief, all the prayers, and they become a kind of certainty, something that lets you become bigger, cooler, more than human. You crystallize. ~ Neil Gaiman,

825:Tableau Locked arm in arm they cross the way The black boy and the white, The golden splendor of the day The sable pride of night. From lowered blinds the dark folk stare And here the fair folk talk, Indignant that these two should dare In unison to walk. Oblivious to look and word They pass, and see no wonder That lightning brilliant as a sword Should blaze the path of thunder. ~ Countee Cullen,

826:She knows what it means. Oh, wonderfully bright at 6 a.m., yes, wonderfully clear for an hour. But the shorter the days, the longer the nights, the darker the house, the easier it is, the easier it is, the easier it is, to mistake a shadow for the writing on the wall, the sound of overland footsteps for the distant crack of thunder, and the midnight chime of a New Year clock for the bell that tolls the end of the world. ~ Zadie Smith,

827:At evening the complaint of the cuckoo Grows still in the wood. The grain bends its head deeper, The red poppy. Darkening thunder drives Over the hill. The old song of the cricket Dies in the field. The leaves of the chestnut tree Stir no more. Your clothes rustle On the winding stair. The candle gleams silently In the dark room; A silver hand Puts the light out; Windless, starless night. ~ Georg Trakl,

828:I am the beast with a contorted grin, contracting down to illusion and dilating toward infinity, both growing and dying, delightfully suspended between hope for nothing and despair of everything, brought up among perfumes and poisons, consumed with love and hatred, killed by lights and shadows. My symbol is death of light and the flame of death. Sparks die in me only to be reborn as thunder and lightning. Darkness itself glows in me. ~ Emil M Cioran,

829:It was the sound of the god of death from one of the forgotten religions, the one that got it right, upstaging the pretenders with their billions of duped faithful. Every god ever manufactured by the light of cave fires to explain the thunder or calling forth the fashionable supplications in far-flung temples was the wrong one. He had come around after all this time, preening as he toured the necropolis, his kingdom risen at last. ~ Colson Whitehead,

830:Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drenched our teeples, drowned the cocks! You sulphurour and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once That make ingrateful man! ~ William Shakespeare,

831:I am the beast with a contorted grin, contracting down to illusion and dilating toward infinity, both growing and dying, delightfully suspended between hope for nothing and despair of everything, brought up among perfumes and poisons, consumed with love and hatred, killed by lights and shadows. My symbol is death of light and the flame of death. Sparks die in me only to be reborn as thunder and lightning. Darkness itself glows in me. ~ Emile M Cioran,

832:It was unreal, grotesquely unreal, that morning skies which dawned so tenderly blue could be profaned with cannon smoke that hung over the town like low thunder clouds, that warm noontides filled with the piercing sweetness of massed honeysuckle and climbing roses could be so fearful, as shells screamed into the streets, bursting like the crack of doom, throwing iron splinters hundreds of yards, blowing people and animals to bits. ~ Margaret Mitchell,

833:The Clouds Have Stopped Their Thunder The clouds have stopped their thunder, The lightning has hidden her spark, The floods of the Punjab rivers have rolled away, The rivers have shrunk low; The storm is over, and the winds blow soft and slow. It is the season of the cooling dew! The dew is falling everywhere, And wet is every rose. The gentle breath of heaven blows. ~ Bhai Vir Singh,

834:How rarely boyhood loves to paint in glowing tints his future bright, a picture where no line is faint--whose very clouds are touch'd with light. And girlhood hails a world unknown and reads it in her own glad dreams, as lilies see themselves alone reflected in their azure streams. But rosy clouds that morning brings, ere noon may deepen into thunder--and life's dark stream has sterner things than silver lilies growing under. ~ Cecil Frances Alexander,

835:Veil, you see, if I vas to say something portentous like "zer dark eyes of zer mind" back home in Uberwald, zer would be a sudden crash of thunder,' said Otto. 'And if I vas to point at a castle on a towering crag and say "Yonder is . . . zer castle" a volf would be bound to howl mournfully.' He sighed. 'In zer old country, zer scenery is psychotropic and knows vot is expected of it. Here, alas, people just look at you in a funny vay. ~ Terry Pratchett,

836:I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in Superstition the Vampire and Priests of Prey. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, 'Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. ~ G K Chesterton,

837:A white crowned night sparrow sings as the moon sets. Thunder growls far off. Our campfire is a single light. Amongst a hundred peaks and waterfalls. The manifold voices of falling water Take all night. Wrapped in your down bag Starlight on you cheeks and eyelids Your breath comes and goes In a tiny cloud in the frosty night. Ten thousand birds sing in the sunrise. Ten thousand years revolve without change. All this will never be again. ~ Kenneth Rexroth,

838:Whenever problems seem to get the best of me, whenever I feel them closing in on me, I go to a quiet place that lies somewhere in my soul. I do not reason, analyze or think. Those will come later. I simply go. From this place of silence, I garner strength and inspiration to stand firm in the face of fire, to be calm in the midst of thunder. When I emerge, the world has not changed, but I have. And in changing, a whole new world is born. ~ John Harricharan,

839:Arma Virumque 'Ours is a Christian Army'; so he said A regiment of bangomen who led. 'And ours a Christian Navy,' added he Who sailed a thunder-junk upon the sea. Better they know than men unwarlike do What is an army and a navy, too. Pray God there may be sent them by-and-by The knowledge what a Christian is, and why. For somewhat lamely the conception runs Of a brass-buttoned Jesus firing guns. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

840:Let us have Men, Men who will say a word to their souls and keep it—keep it not when it is easy, but keep it when it is hard—keep it when the storm roars and there is a white-streaked sky and blue thunder before, and one’s eyes are blinded and one’s ears deafened with the war of opposing things; and keep it under the long leaden sky and the gray dreariness that never lifts. Hold unto the last: that is what it means to have a Dominant Idea. ~ George H Smith,

841:I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

842:White Clouds White clouds may never rain! They only float across the sky lazily! Dark clouds rain giving wetness to the ground Thunder thrills the earth. Lightning lights up the sky The sea greets dark clouds with folded arms. When those pure white balls of cotton skim across the blue sky Its a lovely sight we see! Makes you stand and stare. Where else would you find such beauty in whiteness? ~ Ayyappa Paniker,

843:He wakes! The steel giant wakes! Long, long ago he rose from the sea, with the blood of life streaming from his belly. And then they buried him with thunder...and...carrots...at Stonehenge. But now he wakes again. The Age of Rotten Fish is over; the Age of Steel and Bombs is upon us. And he had come to give us life and strength, to free us form these cells, to restore us once again to baseball and ping pong! Sent by God from the Great Beyond!!! ~ Ry Murakami,

844:Ruby wine is drunk by knaves, Sugar spends to fatten slaves, Rose and vine-leaf deck buffoons; Thunder-clouds are Jove's festoons, Drooping oft in wreaths of dread, Lightning-knotted round his head; The hero is not fed on sweets, Daily his own heart he eats; Chambers of the great are jails, And head-winds right for royal sails. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Heroism ,

845:You were made to be mine,” he says against my lips, kissing me between breaths. “You know that?” he asks. “You’re mine. My hands were made to touch you; my lips were made to love you,” he says as he sucks along my neck, his tongue trailing down my throat. He goes lower and bites my shirt, pulling it down with his teeth, kissing my chest. “My eyes were meant to see you,” he whispers in his voice of thunder as he slowly unbuttons my shirt. ~ Katy Evans,

846:It was grand to see how the wind awoke, and bent the trees, and drove the rain before it like a cloud of smoke; and to hear the solemn thunder and to see the lightning; and while thinking with awe of the tremendous powers by which our little lives are encompassed, to consider how beneficent they are and how upon the smallest flower and leaf there was already a freshness poured from all this seeming rage which seemed to make creation new again. ~ Charles Dickens,

847:It was starting to rain, big sloppy drops spilling onto the windshield. No thunder yet. His driving was stymied by a clobbering sensation of loss. But what exactly had he lost? Himself as he had been, firm-bodied and flabby-minded? Some clarity of vision he once had possessed? Or was it the old, dormant chamber of his bicameral mind calling out to him, reminding him of the days when rocks and trees and statues had spoken with the voices of gods? ~ Jennifer Egan,

848:Our Kotex commercial airs the same week the article is released. We were hired to design something “pad-centric” when "Nashville Combat" was in postproduction and we were subsisting on lentils and six-packs of PBR. We were instructed to steal some thunder from tampon usage with a “fun, light-hearted spot” showcasing the company’s new Super Light Close-to-You sanitary napkin. “Isn’t that a Carpenters song?” Mel said after they approached us. ~ Kayla Rae Whitaker,

849:I went on tours with [Bob] Dylan - the big one was in 1975 and called Roaring Thunder Review. I knew him well because I met him around the time he did his second album, in 1963. He recorded one of my songs called Shadows. In the 1970s, it was suggested that we do a duet, because we had the same manager, Albert Grossman, who also managed Odetta and Peter, Paul and Mary. Dylan and I respected what each other did, but I just decided not to do it. ~ Gordon Lightfoot,

850:The relic from before birth Enters one's heart one day. Be as careful as if you were holding a full vessel, Be as gentle as if you were caressing an infant. The gate of earth should be shut tight, The portals of heaven should be first opened. Wash the yellow sprouts clean, And atop the mountain is thunder shaking the earth. [1786.jpg] -- from Immortal Sisters: Secret Teachings of Taoist Women, Edited by Thomas Cleary ~ Sun Buer, Refining the Spirit ,

851:Ye who love the haunts of Nature, Love the sunshine of the meadow, Love the shadow of the forest, Love the wind among the branches, And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, And the rushing of great rivers Through their palisades of pine-trees, And the thunder in the mountains, Whose innumerable echoes Flap like eagles in their eyries;- Listen to these wild traditions, To this Song of Hiawatha! ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

852:A strange joy rose within Shadow then, and he started laughing, as the rain washed his naked skin and the lightning flashed and thunder rumbled so loudly that he could barely hear himself. He laughed and exulted. He was alive. He had never felt like this. Ever. If he did die, he thought, if he died right now, here on the tree, it would be worth it to have had this one, perfect, mad moment. “Hey!” he shouted, at the storm. “Hey! It’s me! I’m here!” He ~ Neil Gaiman,

853:No Senses stronger than his brain can bear. Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly: What the advantage, if his finer eyes Study a Mite, not comprehend the Skies?... Or quick Effluvia darting thro' his brain, Die of a Rose, in Aromatic pain? If Nature thunder'd in his opening ears, And stunn'd him with the music of the Spheres... Who finds not Providence all-good and wise, Alike in what it gives, and what denies? ~ Alexander Pope,

854:three generations of women sit around the enormous kitchen table--some hunched over cups of coffee, some hunched over cups of tea. despite our differences, we are all laughing so hard that the thunder outside must compete with us. she can't sit here with us anymore & I'm sure we can all feel the heaviness of her absence, but even when every chair is taken & everyone else has to stand, it still feels like there will always be a space for her. ~ Amanda Lovelace,

855:Also, I kept thinking about Alex Fierro. You know, maybe just a little. Alex was a force of nature, like the snow thunder. She struck when she felt like it, depending on temperature differentials and storm patterns I couldn't possibly predict. She shook my foundations in a way that was powerful but also weirdly soft and constrained, veiled in blizzard. I couldn't assign any motives to her. She just did what she wanted. At least, that's how it felt to me. ~ Rick Riordan,

856:Raindrops are beating, a large puddle is forming, there on the balcony. It all floats in Emptiness, in purest Transparency, with no one here to watch it. If there is an I, it is all that is arising, right now and right now and right now. My lungs are the sky; those mountains are my teeth; the clouds are my skin; the thunder is my heart beating time to the timeless; the rain itself, the tears of our collective estate, here where nothing is really happening. ~ Ken Wilber,

857:Say they who counsel war; ‘we are decreed, Reserved, and destined to eternal woe; Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, What can we suffer worse?’ Is this then worst, Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms? What when we fled amain, pursued and struck With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought The Deep to shelter us? This Hell then seemed A refuge from those wounds. Or when we lay Chained on the burning lake? That sure was worse. ~ John Milton,

858:A dream woke me," Arctor said. "A religious dream. In it there was this huge clap of thunder, and all of a sudden the heavens rolled aside and God appeared and His voice rumbled at me-what the hell did He say?-oh yeah. 'I am vexed with you, my son' He said. He was scowling. I was shaking, in the dream, and looking up, and I said, 'What'd I do now, Lord?' And He said, 'You left the cap off the toothpaste tube again.' And then I realized it was my ex-wife. ~ Philip K Dick,

859:crack of lightning and the explosion of thunder struck the guardhouse, igniting a blaze that sent soldiers scurrying down. More bolts sizzled ahead on the wall, sending up clouds of smoke and rock dust.  When the dust had cleared, Talis could see a chunk of wall at the top had been blasted away. Quickening their pace, they soon reached the damaged section. The air smelled like smoke from a hot fire and sparks from a grinding wheel. But to his relief, he ~ John Forrester,

860:In the lacquered house the storms of life took their course quietly; nevertheless the storms of life here took their course calamitously: they did not thunder with events; they did not shine a cleansing light into the inhabitants’ hearts with arrows of lightning; but from a hoarse throat they wrung the air in a torrent of poisonous fluids; and in the consciousness of the inhabitants cerebral games swirled round, like dense gases in hermetically sealed jars. ~ Andrei Bely,

861:I pour upward through the long dark tunnel of the spout. I am a funnel of smoke, a whirlwind of fire. I open myself and multiply, swelling into a great cloud over the boy’s head. I press a thousand smoky hands against the stone ceiling of the cave. I roll a thousand fiery eyes and stretch a thousand glittering legs. I unfold and unfold and unfold. How good it feels to be out! I crackle with energy and excitement, my blood lightning and my breath thunder. ~ Jessica Khoury,

862:It was a wise custom established by his father ever since one morning when a servant girl had shaken the case to get the pillow out and the pistol went off as it hit the floor and the bullet wrecked the cupboard in the room, went through the living room wall, passed through the dining room of the house next door with the thunder of war, and turned a life-size saint on the main altar of the church on the opposite side of the square to plaster dust. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez,

863:Let him close the ears with his thumbs .... This is my most beloved Yoga. From practicing this gradually, the Yogi begins to hear mystic sounds (nadas). The first sound is like the hum of the honey-intoxicated bee (matta-bhrnga), next that of a flute (venu), then of a harp (vina); after this, by the gradual practice of Yoga, the destroyer of the darkness of the world, he hears the sounds of ringing bells (ghanta) then sounds like roar of thunder (megha).    ~ Shiva-Samhita,

864:Anyway, one of the few useful things I learned while I was getting my head shrunk is that when you get rejected a lot, you start to hear rejection all the time, everywhere, even when there hasn't been any rejection. And here's something else she told me that you need to remember. . .after the rejection comes shame. Like how thunder always follows lightning. You don't always hear it, but it's always there, so deal with it or it'll build up and destroy you. ~ Stephanie Tromly,

865:In the deepest recesses of that ancient Paris of the poor and destitute which lay hidden beneath the brilliance of the rich and fortunate Paris, there was to be heard the sombre growling of the masses: a fearful and awe-inspiring voice in which were mingled the snarl of animals and the words of God, a terror to the faint hearted and a warning to the wise, coming at once from the depths, like the roaring of a lion, and from the heights like the voice of thunder. ~ Victor Hugo,

866:Thunder rumbled, and it rattled the branches of the trees and shook deep inside the huge rocks, and the rain fell with cold violence. It was late afternoon, but it was dark as night. A trail of lightning speared across the clouds, and Shadow wondered if that was the thunderbird returning to its high crags, or just an atmospheric discharge, or whether the two ideas were, on some level, the same thing. And of course they were. That was the point, after all. ~ Neil Gaiman,

867:As we lay huddled together under the tent, which leaked considerably about the sides, with our baggage at our feet, we listened to some of the grandest thunder which I ever heard, -rapid peals, round and plump, bang, bang, bang in succession, like artillery from some fortress in the sky; and the lightning was proportionally brilliant. The Indian said, 'It must be good powder.' All for the benefit of the moose and us, echoing far over the concealed lakes. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

868:It was the funeral of a woman who had henpecked her husband, driven her kids half nuts, scrapped with the neighbors at the slightest opportunity, and even made neurotics of their cat and dog with her explosive temper. As the casket was lowered into the grave, a violent thunderstorm broke, and the pastor's benediction was drowned out by a blinding flash of lightning, followed by terrific thunder. "Well, at least we know she got there all right," commented her husband. ~ Various,

869:[Amy Ray and I] both have this part of our brain that makes us think that everybody should and will be nice and friendly and forthcoming. And then we're completely disillusioned. We have all these grand plans. One of them is the Rolling Thunder Pussy Revue. There's all these women's festivals going on this summer, and we don't think they're as adventurous as they could be. Lilith Fair-right away, by the name, you know they aren't pushing the envelope hard enough. ~ Ani DiFranco,

870:I think we've had rather too much dirt rather than not enough. That's not a prudish English remark, but a statement of saturation. These up-and-coming young men," she splutters. "Penelope Fitzgerald -- they think, 'Ah! Middle-aged lady with frizzy hair and a nice smile; she must be writing tastefully.' I say she's writing against taste, quite savagely. But they don't pick it up because they're brash young men poncing about, waving their blood and thunder and condoms! ~ A S Byatt,

871:The clouds were flying fast, the wind was coming up in gusts, banging some neighboring shutters that had broken loose, twirling the rusty chimney-cowls and weathercocks, and rushing round and round a confined adjacent churchyard as if it had a mind to blow the dead citizens out of their graves. The low thunder, muttering in all quarters of the sky at once, seemed to threaten vengeance for this attempted desecration, and to mutter, "Let them rest! Let them rest! ~ Charles Dickens,

872:The nursery reminded me uncomfortably of a pre-Rising thriller that Maggie had forced me to watch while we were staying at the Agora in Seattle: a dinosaur adventure called Jurassic Park, in which scientists with more brains than sense cloned enormous prehistoric predators just because they could. Maybe that’s an oversimplification of the movie’s premise, but really, who looks at a three-ton thunder lizard and thinks, “I should get one of those for the back garden”? ~ Mira Grant,

873:There is a blood-red thunder all around you, a blinding light flashes from time to time, voices roar and cease, roar and cease, you are in the grip of an unknowable agony, it is in your shoulders, your arms, your hands, your breath, an intolerable labor- and, no, it is not at all like approaching an orgasm, an orgasm implying relief, even, sometimes, however desperately, implying the hope of love. Love and death are connected, but not in the place I was that day. ~ James Baldwin,

874:Pray with me for that touch. If it comes with fire, so be it. If it comes with water, so be it. If it comes with wind, let it come, O God. If it comes with thunder and lightning, let us bow before it. O Lord, come. Come close enough to touch. Shield us with the asbestos of grace, but no more. Pass through all the way to the heart, and touch. Burn and soak and blow and crash. Or, in a still, small voice. Whatever the means, come. Come all the way and touch our hearts. ~ John Piper,

875:DYER. (Sits down) There was nothing that I recall save that the Sunne was a Round flat shining Disc and the Thunder was a Noise from a Drum or a Pan. VANNBRUGGHE. (Aside) What a Child is this! (To Dyer) These are only our Devices, and are like the Paint of our Painted Age. DYER. But in Meditation the Sunne is a vast and glorious Body, and Thunder is the most forcible and terrible Phaenomenon: it is not to be mocked, for the highest Passion is Terrour. ~ Peter Ackroyd,

876:Sometimes, during the lonely hours on the control deck, Bowman would listen to this radiation. He would turn up the gain until the room filled with a crackling, hissing roar; out of this background, at irregular intervals, emerged brief whistles and peeps like the cries of demented birds. It was an eerie sound, for it had nothing to do with Man; it was as lonely and meaningless as the murmur of waves on a beach, or the distant crash of thunder beyond the horizon. ~ Arthur C Clarke,

877:Love, she believed, had to come, suddenly, with a great clap of thunder and a lightning flash, a tempest from heaven that falls upon your life, like a devastation, scatters your ideals like leaves and hurls your very soul into the abyss. Little did she know that up on the roof of the house, the rain will form a pool if the gutters are blocked, and there she would have stayed feeling safe inside, until one day she suddenly discovered the crack right down the wall. ~ Gustave Flaubert,

878:But, in fact, his reserve might, in some degree, have proceeded from design. If so, then here was evinced the unhealthy climax of that icy though conscientious policy, more or less adopted by all commanders of large ships, which, except in signal emergencies, obliterates alike the manifestation of sway with every trace of sociality; transforming the man into a block, or rather into a loaded cannon, which, until there is call for thunder, has nothing to say. Viewing ~ Herman Melville,

879:He stood looking down at her for a moment, then walked to the window and raised it. "Let's let the storm in," he said, and then it was with them, filling the half-dark room with sound and vibration. The rain-chilled air washed over her, cool and fresh on her heated skin. She sighed, the small sound drowned out by the din of thunder and rain. There by the window, with the dim grey light outlining the bulge and plane of powerful muscle, Wolf removed his wet clothing. ~ Linda Howard,

880:As she'd hoped, the two of them were the sole occupants of this stretch of windswept beach. Sipping the steaming liquid, she let the familiar peace seep into her soul. The cerulean water sparkled in the morning sun, as if sprinkled with diamonds, and she drew in a cleansing breath of the tangy salt air. She watched a sandpiper play tag with the surf. Listed to the caw of a gull high overhead and the muted thunder of the breaking waves. Felt the breeze caress her cheek. ~ Irene Hannon,

881:You can’t run, you can’t hide, and the idea that you have no control at all just gets into your head and it sticks there. In my time in the Navy, I was never so scared in my life. Bombs and smoke everywhere, fires on the deck. Meanwhile, the guns are booming and the noise is like nothing you’ve ever heard. Thunder times ten, maybe, but that doesn’t describe it. In the big battles, Japanese Zeros strafed the deck continually, the shots ricocheting all over the place. ~ Nicholas Sparks,

882:"Nature" Is What We See 668 "Nature" is what we see— The Hill—the Afternoon— Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee— Nay—Nature is Heaven— Nature is what we hear— The Bobolink—the Sea— Thunder—the Cricket— Nay—Nature is Harmony— Nature is what we know— Yet have no art to say— So impotent Our Wisdom is To her Simplicity. ~ Emily Dickinson,

883:The ground was shaking and my decade-old walls were starting to crumble. I could lose myself trying to rebuild them while the super storm known as Henry Alexander ominously hovered over me. Or I could sit back, relax, and enjoy the thunder. Even the strongest hurricanes had to die out eventually. Maybe Henry was mine. Or, more likely, he’d be the earthquake that was going to break me down before swallowing me whole. Either way, I wasn’t going to be left standing. ~ Aly Martinez,

884:poetry rose in Noah’s heart: The pillars of heaven tremble and are astounded at his rebuke. By his power he stilled the sea; by his understanding he shattered Leviathan. By his wind the heavens were made fair; his hand pierced the fleeing serpent. Behold, these are but the outskirts of his ways, and how small a whisper do we hear of him! But the thunder of his power who can understand? And Noah knew that Elohim was his guardian who controlled even the sea dragon of chaos. ~ Brian Godawa,

885:A Cloud Shinned Up A Mountain A cloud shinned up a mountain, a lightning struck it; it felt helpless when trapped in the lap of the mountain range; flight was forbidden, a rock gripped it and it fell and reached the bottom with a bang. I thought it was a thunder till the unexpected happened in home. A friend invited a friend to a feast. Does anyone ask the first snowfall: 'Where were you born? ' ~ Dina Nath Nadim,

886:Hon or We have both traveled from the other side of some hill, one side of which we may wish we could forget" Love me stupid. Love me terrible. And when I am no mountain but rather a monsoon of imperfect thunder love me. When I am blue in my face from swallowing myself yet wearing my best heart even if my best heart is a century of hunger an angry mule breathing hard or perhaps even hopeful. A small sun. Little & bright. ~ Anis Mojgani,

887:There is the grand truth about Nathaniel Hawthorne. He says NO! in thunder; but the Devil himself cannot make him say yes. For all men who say yes, lie; and all men who say no,why, they are in the happy condition of judicious, unincumbered travellers in Europe; they cross the frontiers into Eternity with nothing but a carpet-bag,that is to say, the Ego. Whereas those yes-gentry, they travel with heaps of baggage, and, damn them! they will never get through the Custom House. ~ Herman Melville,

888:Yosemite Valley, to me, is always a sunrise, a glitter of green and golden wonder in a vast edifice of stone and space. I know of no sculpture, painting or music that exceeds the compelling spiritual command of the soaring shape of granite cliff and dome, of patina of light on rock and forest, and of the thunder and whispering of the falling, flowing waters. At first the colossal aspect may dominate; then we perceive and respond to the delicate and persuasive complex of nature. ~ Ansel Adams,

889:If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. This struggle may be a moral one; or it may be a physical one; or it may be both moral and physical; but it must be a struggle. Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will. ~ Frederick Douglass,

890:Lightning my pilot sits; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

891:was a brilliant ache in his optic nerve, and a steady, painless throbbing at the base of his skull—the distant thunder of an approaching migraine. He rolled onto his side and pushed up into a sitting position, tucking his head between his knees. Sensed the instability of the world long before he opened his eyes, like its axis had been cut loose to teeter. His first deep breath felt like someone driving a steel wedge between the ribs high on his left side, but he groaned through ~ Blake Crouch,

892:God created an awesome world. God intentionally loaded the world with amazing things to leave you astounded. The carefully air-conditioned termite mound in Africa, the tart crunchiness of an apple, the explosion of thunder, the beauty of an orchid, the interdependent systems of the human body, the inexhaustible pounding of the ocean waves, and thousands of other created sights, sounds, touches, and tastes—God designed all to be awesome. And he intended you to be daily amazed. ~ Paul David Tripp,

893:In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again. ~ Anne Frank,

894:The rain had abated. The sails were hoisted, and the barrels we had placed everywhere filled with that precious gift from the sky. Calm reigned during a botched dawn in which pitch black shaded off into dark grey. Isolated sunrays pierced the clouds to shed light on a terribly flat sea like a lake of tar. Far, very far away, cracked muted peals of thunder. The storm approached quickly, lightning streaking the leaden ceiling while the sea shivered and quivered under a fresh wind. ~ Jeff VanderMeer,

895:But I have seen the best of you and the worst of you, and I choose both. I want to share every single one of your sunshines and save them for later. I will tuck them into my pockets so I can give them back to you when the rain falls hard. Friend, I want to be the mirror that reminds you to love yourself. I want to be the air in your lungs that reminds you to breath. When the walls come down, when the thunder rumbles, when nobody else is home, hold my hand, and I promise I won’t let go. ~ Sarah Kay,

896:skin. Blue sparks writhed across his hands like tiny snakes. Rain washed his face. “This is the best,” he shouted, over the roar of the storm. As if it understood him, the bird began to rise higher, every wing-beat a clap of thunder, and it swooped and dove and tumbled through the dark clouds. “In my dream, I was hunting you,” said Shadow, his words ripped away by the wind. “In my dream. I had to bring back a feather.” Yes. The word was a static crackle in the radio of his mind. They ~ Neil Gaiman,

897:Your printers have made but one blunder,Correct it instanter, and then for the thunder!We'll see in a jiffy if this Mr S[pencer]Has the ghost of a claim to be thought a good fencer.To my vision his merits have still seemed to dwindle,Since I have found him allied with the great Dr T[yndall]While I have, for my part, grown cockier and cockier,Since I found an ally in yourself, Mr L[ockyer]And am always, in consequence, thoroughly willin',To perform in the pages of Nature's M[acmillan]. ~ Peter Tait,

898:Thunder explodes over their heads and Sarah sees the silver sheet of water pouring down outside the broken barn door, Cowboy slumped against the wall with a rueful smile, the buttons in his head reflecting the lightning in blue-white pattern, silver and turquoise, like eyes gazing inward, into his head. Sarah feels a sweep of sadness for Cowboy, the dispossessed panzerboy, his boots leaving tracks in the dust above which he once flew with his mind flicking at the speed of light. ~ Walter Jon Williams,

899:The sea had changed. It was dark green now with white-horses, and the rocks shone yellow like phosphorus. Rumbling solemnly the thunder-storm came up from the south. It spread its black sail over the sea; it spread over half the sky and the lightning flashed with an ominous glint. "It's coming right over the island," thought Snufkin with a thrill of joy and excitement. He imagined he was sailing high up over the clouds, and perhaps shooting out to sea on a hissing flash of lightning. ~ Tove Jansson,

900:Every flower that gives its fragrance to the wandering air leaves its influence on the soul of man. The wheel and swoop of the winged creatures of the air suggest the flowing lines of subtle art. The roar and murmur of the restless sea, the cataract's solemn chant, the thunder's voice, the happy babble of the brook, the whispering leaves, the thrilling notes of mating birds, the sighing winds, taught man to pour his heart in song and gave a voice to grief and hope, to love and death. ~ Robert G Ingersoll,

901:I am the Headless Daimon with sight in my feet; I am the mighty one who possesses the immortal fire; I am the truth who hates the fact that unjust deeds are done in the world; I am the one who makes the lightning flash and the thunder roll; I am the one whose sweat falls upon the earth as rain so that life can begin; I am the one whose mouth burns completely; I am the one who begets and destroys; I am the Favour of the Aion; my name is a Heart Encircled by a Serpent; Come Forth and Follow. ~ Gordon White,

902:Everything smelled of sheep. The dandelions were suddenly more sheep than flower, each petal reflecting wool and the sound of a bell ringing off the yellow. But the thing that smelled the most like sheep, was the very sun itself. When the sun went behind a cloud, the smell of the sheep decreased, like standing on some old guy's hearing aid, and when the sun came back again, the smell of the sheep was loud, like a clap of thunder inside a coffee cup. (from "On Paradise", page 50) ~ Richard Brautigan,

903:Our culture, therefore, must not omit the arming of the man. Let him hear in season, that he is born into the state of war, and that the commonwealth and his own well-being require that he should not go dancing in the weeds of peace, but warned, self- collected, and neither defying nor dreading the thunder, let him take both reputation and life in his hand, and, with perfect urbanity, dare the gibbet and the mob by the absolute truth of his speech, and the rectitude of his behaviour. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

904:Suddenly there was a huge flash of lightning that shone all the way inside the place, illuminating the people on the dirt floor. And just then a clap of thunder sounded , ready to crack the roof. Surprised, he stood up, and the crowd of people at the entrance turned as one to face him. Then he saw that theirs were the faces of animals— dogs or foxes, he wasn’t sure— and the animals all wore clothes, and some of them had long tongues hanging out, licking around the corners of their mouths. ~ Haruki Murakami,

905:The storm broke then with a vivid flash of lightning and a great rumble of thunder which drowned every other sound. The Baron turned up the collar of his Burberry. ‘You go down that side, I’ll search this— we’ll find him, Becky. You’re not afraid of the storm?’ She was terrified, but her terror was quite wiped out by anxiety for Bertie. She shook her head and started off down the deserted street, peering through the pelting rain, searching the canal as well as every doorway and alley. ~ Betty Neels,

906:The god of wine looked around at the assembled crowd. “Miss me?” The satyrs fell over themselves nodding and bowing. “Oh, yes, very much, sire!” “Well, I did not miss this place!” Dionysus snapped. “I bear bad news, my friends. Evil news. The minor gods are changing sides. Morpheus has gone over to the enemy. Hecate, Janus, and Nemesis, as well. Zeus knows how many more.” Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Strike that,” Dionysus said. “Even Zeus doesn’t know. ~ Rick Riordan,

907:Guard Of The Eastern Gate Halifax sits on her hills by the sea In the might of her pride,-Invincible, terrible, beautiful, she With a sword at her side. To right and to left of her, battlements rear And fortresses frown; While she sits on her throne without favour or fear With her cannon as crown. Coast guard and sentinel, watch of the weal Of a nation she keeps; But her hand is encased in a gauntlet of steel, And her thunder but sleeps. ~ Emily Pauline Johnson,

908:the rain is coming. little sister, the night broke. the thunder cracked my brain finally. the rain is coming, i promise you. i didn’t mean to but your tears will bring life back. purple flowers grow, the colour blood looks in the veins. they’ll sprout out of my chest. i promise you they’ll crack the ground, grow over the freeways, down the slopes to the sea. i’ll be in their faces. i’ll be in the waves, coming down from the sky. i’ll be inside the one who holds you. and then i won’t be. ~ Francesca Lia Block,

909:Jean Valjean, who was listening attentively, heard something like the sould of retreating footsteps. "They are going away," he thought. "I am alone." All at once he heard over his head a noise which appeared to him like a thunder-clap; it was a spadeful of earth falling on the coffin; a second spadeful fell, and one of the holes by which he breather was stopped; a third spadeful fell, and then a forth. "There are somethings stronger than the the strongest man, and Jean Val Jean lost his senses. ~ Victor Hugo,

910:Before history there was science, of a sort. At any moment nature presents us with a variety of puzzling phenomena: fire, thunderstorms, plagues, planetary motion, light, tides, and so on. Observation of the world led to useful generalizations: fires are hot; thunder presages rain; tides are highest when the Moon is full or new, and so on. These became part of the common sense of mankind. But here and there, some people wanted more than just a collection of facts. They wanted to explain the world. ~ Steven Weinberg,

911:Instead of looking at books and pictures about the New Testament I looked at the New Testament. There I found an account, not in the least of a person with his hair parted in the middle or his hands clasped in appeal, but of an extraordinary being with lips of thunder and acts of lurid decision, flinging down tables, casting out devils, passing with the wild secrecy of the wind from mountain isolation to a sort of dreadful demagogy; a being who often acted like an angry god-- and always like a god. ~ G K Chesterton,

912:Then let us have a language worthy of our world, a democratic style where rich and well-born nouns can roister with some sluttish verb yet find themselves content and uncomplained of. We want a diction which contains the quaint, the rare, the technical, the obsolete, the old, the lent, the nonce, the local slang and argot of the street, in neighborly confinement. Our tone should suit our time: uncommon quiet dashed with common thunder. It should be young and quick and sweet and dangerous as we are. ~ William H Gass,

913:And so later Hannah was back at the kitchen table in her house. Sitting where she’d sat earlier. Her place. Hannah didn’t know that humankind has a deep-set belief in the idea that we create and maintain reality through ritual, that repeated actions are what keep the spheres in alignment. She also didn’t know that it doesn’t work, and that there are far older, more complex, and much darker designs in motion, ones that override ours as effortlessly as a crack of thunder blotting out birdsong. ~ Michael Marshall Smith,

914:Having second thoughts?” Puck’s voice was soft and dangerous, a far cry from his normal flippancy. “I thought we put this behind us for now.” “Never,” I said, matching his stare. “I can’t ever take it back, Goodfellow. I’m still going to kill you. I swore to her I would.” Lighting flickered overhead, and thunder rumbled in the distance as we faced each other with narrowed eyes. “One day,” I said softly. “One day you’ll look up, and I’ll be there. That’s the only ending for us. Don’t ever forget. ~ Julie Kagawa,

915:The land has a memory. Every stream and river runs with a confession of sorts, history whispered over rocks, lifted in the beaks of birds at a stream, carried out to the sea. Buffalo thunder across plains whose soil was watered with the blood of battles long since relegated to musty books on forgotten shelves. Fields once strewn with blue and gray now flower with uneasy buds. The slave master snaps the lash, and generations later, the ancestral scars remain. Under it all, the dead lie, remembering. ~ Libba Bray,

916:Instead of looking at books and pictures about the New Testament I looked at the New Testament. There I found an account, not in the least of a person with his hair parted in the middle or his hands clasped in appeal, but of an extraordinary being with lips of thunder and acts of lurid decision, flinging down tables, casting out devils, passing with the wild secrecy of the wind from mountain isolation to a sort of dreadful demagogy; a being who often acted like an angry god — and always like a god. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,

917:Raindrops, thunder, crickets and monkeys, footsteps, heartbeats, birdsong, trains. There’s the sound of a mother kissing her child, saying, “Be a good boy,” and all manner of songs: classical, drums, bagpipes, yelling, Pygmy girls chanting, Chuck Berry. The vinyl pops. The songs pile up. It keeps snowing. Mr. Bell announces each new track. Russian, Bulgarian, pan pipes, Mexican, Azerbaijani. Stravinsky. One song, just a man with a guitar. The man hums and moans. “Blind Willie Johnson. ‘Dark Was the Night. ~ Samantha Hunt,

918:They were all listening to him with the curiosity and, if the truth were known, the utter indifference of practical people who had lost their fear of his God of wrath and chastisement. Why be frightened and deferential and seek pardon when the idea of the devil now merely made them laugh and they no longer believed in an avenging Lord who sent the wind and the hail and the thunder? It was just a waste of time; it was much more sensible to keep your respect for the forces of law and order: they were stronger. ~ mile Zola,

919:The clean and proper (in the sense of incorporated and incorporable) becomes filthy, the sought-after turns into banished, fascination into shame. Then, forgotten time crops up suddenly and condenses into a flash of lightning an operation that, if it were though out, would involve bringing together the two opposite terms but, on account of that flash, is discharged like thunder. The time of abjection is double: a time of oblivion and thunder, of veiled infinity and the moment when revelation bursts forth. ~ Julia Kristeva,

920:the rain is coming. little sister, the night broke. the thunder cracked my brain finally. the rain is coming, i promise you. i didn’t mean to but your tears will bring life back. purple flowers grow, the colour blood looks in the veins. they’ll sprout out of my chest. i promise you they’ll crack the ground, grow over the freeways, down the slopes to the sea. i’ll be in their faces. i’ll be in the waves, coming down from the sky. i’ll be inside the one who holds you. and then i won’t be. ~ Francesca Lia Block,

921:The world is plain rotten. People are mean, they're cruel, they're fake, they always pretend to be something their not. They're weak. They take advantage. A cruddy little man who sees God in a snake, or the devil in thunder, will take you prisoner if he gets the drop on you. Give anyone half a chance and he'll make you a slave; he'll tell you the most awful lies. I've seen them, running around bollocky, playing God. And our friends... they'll be lonely out there. They'll be scared. Because the world stinks. ~ Paul Theroux,

922:I close my eyes and think about everything she just told me. I think about how i feel during those times. Storms are mysterious. No one knows for sure what they are going to bring. They can be loud and booming with lightning striking the earth and thunder clapping every few minutes. They can bring little rain with heat lightning. Or they can bring the threat of tornadoes. Afterwards, the earth is calm and everything goes back to normal. Greenery regrows and people work together the bring back order.. -Ryanne ~ Kaitlyn Hoyt,

923:A Christian should carry the weapon of all prayer like a drawn sword in his hand. We should never sheathe our supplications. Never may our hearts be like an unlimbered gun, with everything to be done to it before it can thunder on the foe, but it should be like a piece of cannon, loaded and primed, only requiring the fire that it may be discharged. The soul should be not always in the exercise of prayer, but always in the energy of prayer; not always actually praying, but always intentionally praying.1 ~ John F MacArthur Jr,

924:Paint a line with blood and, standing over it, shake a nest of spiders good and hard. They fall to this side of the divide. They fall to that side of the divide. Thus did the gods fall, taut-legged and ready, as the heavens trembled, and in the scattering rain of drifting web – all these dread cut threads of scheming settling down – skirling now in the winds that roared sudden, alive and vengeful, to pronounce in tongues of thunder, the gods were at war. Slayer of Magic A History of the Host of Days Sarathan ~ Steven Erikson,

925:Sometimes it's okay to be surprised. It's going to sound stupid, and I wouldn't ever say this out loud, but the way Theo and I came out to each other was sort of like getting caught in a thunderstorm. Storms can suck when they're knocking out power and ripping apart houses, no doubt. But other times the thunder is a soundtrack to something unpredictable, something that gets our hearts racing and wakes us up. If someone had warned me about the weather, I might have freaked out and stayed inside. But I didn't. ~ Adam Silvera,

926:He lifts her white cotton skirt, revealing another hour. His hand. His hands. The syllables inside them. O father, O foreshadow, press into her — as the field shreds itself with cricket cries. Show me how ruin makes a home out of  hip bones. O mother, O minutehand, teach me how to hold a man the way thirst holds water. Let every river envy our mouths. Let every kiss hit the body like a season. Where apples thunder the earth with red hooves. & I am your son. ~ Ocean Vuong,

927:The Third Epigram On an ATHEIST. Posthumus boasts he does not Thunder fear, And for this cause would Innocent appear; That in his Soul no Terrour he does feel, At threatn'd Vultures, or Ixion's Wheel, Which fright the Guilty: But when Fabius told What Acts 'gainst Murder lately were enrol'd, 'Gainst Incest, Rapine,—straight upon the Tale His Colour chang'd, and Posthumus grew pale. His Impious Courage had no other Root, But that the Villaine, Atheist was to boot. ~ Anne Killigrew,

928:His legs bestrid the ocean: his rear’d arm Crested the world: his voice was propertied As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; But when he meant to quail and shake the orb, He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, There was no winter in’t; an autumn ’twas That grew the more by reaping: his delights Were dolphin-like; they show’d his back above The element they lived in: in his livery Walk’d crowns and crownets; realms and islands were As plates dropp’d from his pocket. ~ William Shakespeare,

929:When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy. When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song. When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest. When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king. When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder. ~ Rabindranath Tagore,

930:66 is the path of a people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land, from the thunder of tractors and shrinking ownership, from the desert’s slow northward invasion, from the twisting winds that howl up out of Texas, from the floods that bring no richness to the land and steal what little richness is there. From all of these the people are in flight, and they come into 66 from the tributary side roads, from the wagon tracks and the rutted country roads. 66 is the mother road, the road of flight. Clarksville ~ John Steinbeck,

931:None Other Lamb None None None None other Lamb, none other Name, other hope in Heav’n or earth or sea, other hiding place from guilt and shame, beside Thee! My faith burns low, my hope burns low; Only my heart’s desire cries out in me By the deep thunder of its want and woe, Cries out to Thee. Lord, Thou art Life, though I be dead; Love’s fire Thou art, however cold I be: Nor Heav’n have I, nor place to lay my head, Nor home, but Thee. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

932:Speaking of shabby looks, we're going to have to give you a haircut soon. ...WHAT? These feathers are getting messy. LET ME UNDERSTAND THIS CORRECTLY. YOU WISH TO CUT MY MANE? Thunder tigers grow manes? OF COURSE! HOW ELSE WOULD YOU TELL MALES FROM FEMALES? This is a trick question, right? A MANE IS A SIGN A MALE ARASHITORA HAS REACHED MATURITY. Her laughter rang out in his mind. So it's going to be a few more decades growing, then? HMPH. I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW MOST FEMALES FIND IT FETCHING. ~ Jay Kristoff,

933:I care not what the sailors say: All those dreadful thunder-stones, All that storm that blots the day Can but show that Heaven yawns; Great Europa played the fool That changed a lover for a bull. Fol de rol, fol de rol. To round that shell's elaborate whorl, Adorning every secret track With the delicate mother-of-pearl, Made the joints of Heaven crack: So never hang your heart upon A roaring, ranting journeyman. Fol de rol, fol de rol. ~ William Butler Yeats, Crazy Jane Reproved ,

934:In the stillness of the night, the Goddess whispers. In the brightness of the day, dear God roars. Life pulses, mind imagines, emotions wave, thoughts wander. What are all these but the endless movements of One Taste, forever at play with its own gestures, whispering quietly to all who would listen: is this not yourself? When the thunder roars, do you not hear your Self? When the lightning cracks, do you not see your Self? When clouds float quietly across the sky, is this not your own limitless Being, waving back at you? ~ Ken Wilber,

935:A short scuffle, and then out into the gloom, her grey crest raised and her barred chest feathers puffed up into a meringue of aggression and fear, came a huge old female goshawk. Old because her feet were gnarled and dusty, her eyes a deep, fiery orange, and she was beautiful. Beautiful like a granite cliff or a thunder-cloud. She completely filled the room. She had a massive back of sun-bleached grey feathers, was as muscled as a pit bull, and intimidating as hell, even to staff who spent their days tending eagles. ~ Helen Macdonald,

936:a white formless bundle moves over the clear heaven constantly with all its strength it rocks side to side tied crosswise with green string and so prepares its step constantly struggling it falls on to uncaring soil of heaven and so marks time above it one star keeps silence below it another star silence to its right an old sun philosopjizes to its left a young moon prattles why doesnt it jut calm down for once the good natured thunder from the clear heaven will certainly unite it ~ Vasko Popa,

937:What caused Noah the most consternation was the change in the heavens. The earthquakes shook the pillars of the earth and went wide enough to even rattle the pillars of the firmament. The sky changed colors. Even the sun would turn blood red as it set in the gates of the West. Noah noticed an increase of storm clouds on the horizon, distant thunder portending a coming apocalypse. But this was not a time to brood. They finally finished the construction of the box and filled it with the animals. It was a time to celebrate. ~ Brian Godawa,

938:If there is no struggle there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom and yet deprecate agitation, are men who want crops without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters.This struggle may be a moral one, or it may be a physical one, and it may be both moral and physical, but it must be a struggle. Power concedes nothing without demand. It never did and it never will... Men may not get all they pay for in this world, but they must certainly pay for all they get. ~ Frederick Douglass,

939:When preached purely, His Word exalts, frightens, shocks, and forces us to reassess our whole life. The gospel breaks our train of thought, shatters our comfortable piety, and cracks open our capsule truths. The flashing spirit of Jesus Christ breaks new paths everywhere. His sentences stand like quivering swords of flame because He did not come to bring peace, but a revolution. The gospel is not a children’s fairy tale, but rather a cutting-edge, rolling-thunder, convulsive earthquake in the world of the human spirit. ~ Brennan Manning,

940:When we were still living at home, all he ever drank was cola, huge amounts of it; he had no problem knocking back an entire king-size bottle at dinnertime. Then he would produce these gigantic belches, for which he was sometimes sent to his room, belches that lasted ten years or longer--like subterranean thunder rolling up and exploding from somewhere deep down in his stomach--and for which he enjoyed a certain schoolyard fame: among the boys, that is, for he knew even then that girls were only repulsed by burps and farts. ~ Herman Koch,

941:They say (if I remember rightly) that a public-school man is clean inside and out. As if everyone did not know that while saints can afford to be dirty, seducers have to be clean. As if everyone did not know that the harlot must be clean, because it is her business to captivate, while the good wife may be dirty, because it is her business to clean. As if we did not all know that whenever God's thunder cracks above us, it is very likely indeed to find the simplest man in a muck cart and the most complex blackguard in a bath. ~ G K Chesterton,

942:Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters: I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness; I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children, You owe me no subscription: then let fall Your horrible pleasure: here I stand, your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man: But yet I call you servile ministers, That have with two pernicious daughters join'd Your high engender'd battles 'gainst a head So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul! ~ William Shakespeare,

943:The best thing is to go from nature's God dawn to nature; and if you once get to nature's God, and believe Him, and love Him, it is surprising how easy it is to hear music in the waves, and songs in the wild whisperings of the winds; to see God everywhere in the stones, in the rocks, in the rippling brooks, and hear Him everywhere, in the lowing of cattle, in the rolling of thunder, and in the fury of tempests. Get Christ first, put Him in the right place, and you will find Him to be the wisdom of God in your own experience. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

944:In the end idealism annoyed Bouvard. ‘I don’t want any more of it: the famous cogito is a bore. The ideas of things are taken for the things themselves. What we barely understand is explained by means of words that we do not understand at all! Substance, extension, force, matter and soul, are all so many abstractions, figments of the imagination. As for God, it is impossible to know how he is, or even if he is! Once he was the cause of wind, thunder, revolutions. Now he is getting smaller. Besides, I don’t see what use he is. ~ Gustave Flaubert,

945:Please don’t look at me like that. He lowers his gaze, picks up a strand of my hair and twirls it around his finger. “I miss you,” he says to it. It’s barely audible over the sound of the storm raging outside, but in here, it’s like a roaring crescendo. Why do his words have the power to turn my world upside down? Why do will and shame and guilt and sense fall by the wayside when I’m with him? Because you love him, comes the answer. You love him. You love him. It echoes like the clap of distant thunder. ~ Leylah Attar,

946:    When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy.    When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.    When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.    When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.    When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder.    ~ Rabindranath Tagore,

947:author class:William Blake Reader! of books! of heaven, And of that God from whom Who in mysterious Sinais awful cave, To Man the Wond'rous art of writing gave, Again he speaks in thunder and in fire! Thunder of Thought, & flames of fierce desire: Even from the depths of Hell his voice I hear, Within the unfathomd caverns of my Ear. Therefore I print; nor vain my types shall be: Heaven, Earth & Hell, henceforth shall live in harmony [1982.jpg] -- from The Complete Illuminated Books, by William Blake ~ of books! of heaven ,

948:Our modern world defined God as a ‘religious complex’ and laughed at the Ten Commandments as OLD FASHIONED. Then, through the laughter came the shattering thunder of the World War. And now a blood-drenched, bitter world — no longer laughing — cries for a way out. There is but one way out. It existed before it was engraven upon Tablets of Stone. It will exist when stone has crumbled. The Ten Commandments are not rules to obey as a personal favor to God. They are the fundamental principles without which mankind cannot live together. ~ Cecil B DeMille,

949:O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst. ~ Mark Twain,

950:These are not unquiet dead, ma’am,” Decker said. “This is usually a place of great peace. To lie here means that you have cast aside the burden of duty for the feather of honorable death. But they know the turmoil of our nation and have wished to rise to its defense could they again. We quiet them, ma’am, by the rumble and squeal of our treads and the thunder of our artillery, for they know the nation is protected, still. It was only before our arrival that they were unquiet. I doubt that any infected could nest in these hallowed grounds. ~ John Ringo,

951:Let me say this. It was worth the whole awful, irritating time spent searching the Archives just to watch that moment happen. It was worth blood and fear of death to see her fall in love with him. Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love, so light she probably didn’t notice it herself. It wasn’t dramatic, like some bolt of lightning with crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and spark fades almost too fast for to you to see. But still, you know it’s there, downs where you can’t see, kindling. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

952:That is why we do not know where Mama is buried, or if she has a grave at all. The Turks had dragged her away earlier in the day, when we were packed on the roasting quayside; thousands and thousands of terrified people, with the water full of bodies in front of us, and the roaring of the great fire behind. I wish I could forget it; the thunder-heat of the flames, and the sound of the screaming as the Turks took away the young girls and the pretty women, and shot and bayoneted the husbands and fathers and brothers who tried to stop them. ~ Paul Kearney,

953:O God, when I listen to the voices of animals, the sounds of trees, the murmurings of water, the singing of birds, the whistling of the wind, or the boom of thunder, I see in them evidence of Your unity; I feel that You are supreme power, omniscience, supreme knowledge, and supreme justice. I recognize You, O God, in the trials I am going through. May Your pleasure be my pleasure, too. May I be Your joy, the joy that a Father feels for a son. And may I think of You calmly and with determination, even when I find it hard to say I love You. ~ Paulo Coelho,

954:There are storms that are frankly theatrical, all sheet lightning and metallic thunder rolls. There are storms that are tropical and sultry, and incline to hot winds and fireballs. But this was a storm of the Circle Sea plains, and its main ambition was to hit the ground with as much rain as possible. It was the kind of storm that suggests that the whole sky has swallowed a diuretic. The thunder and lightning hung around in the background, supplying a sort of chorus, but the rain was the star of the show. It tap-danced across the land. ~ Terry Pratchett,

955:There is a kind of ocean wave Whose origin remains obscure. Such waves are solitary, and appear Just off the cliff-line of Antarctica Lifting the ocean's face into the wind, Moistening the wind that pulls, and pulls them on, Until their height (as trees), their width (As continents), pace that wind north for 7,000 miles. And now we see one! - like a stranger coast Faring towards our own, and taste its breath, And watch it whale, then whiten, then decay: Whose rainbow thunder makes our spirits leap. ~ Christopher Logue,

956:Think you a little din can daunt mine ears? Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard the sea, puffed up with winds, Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? Have I not heard great ordinance in the field, And Heaven's artillery thunder in the skies? Have I not in a pitched battle heard Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang? And do you tell me of a woman's tongue, That gives not half so great a blow to hear As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire? Tush! tush! fear boys with bugs. Grumio: For he fears none. ~ William Shakespeare,

957:In the stillness of the night, the Goddess whispers. In the brightness of the day, dear God roars. Life pulses, mind imagines, emotions wave, thoughts wander. What are all these but the endless movements of One Taste, forever at play with its own gestures, whispering quietly to all who would listen: is this not yourself? When the thunder roars, do you not hear your Self? When the lightning cracks, do you not see your Self? When clouds float quietly across the sky, is this not your own limitless Being, waving back at you? ~ Ken Wilber, One Taste, page 279,

958:Who said that justice is what you imagine? Can you be sure that you know it when you see it, that you will live long enough to recognize the decisive thunder of its occurrence, that it can be manifest within a generation, within ten generations, within the entire span of human existence? What you are talking about is common sense, not justice. Justice is higher and not as easy to understand - until it presents itself in unmistakable splendor. The design of which I speak is far above our understanding. But we can sometimes feel its presence. ~ Mark Helprin,

959:O God, when I listen to the voices of animals, the sounds of trees, the murmurings of water, the singing of birds, the whistling of the wind, or the boom of thunder, I see in them evidence of Your unity; I feel that You are supreme power, omniscience, supreme knowledge, and supreme justice. I recognize You, O God, in the trials I am going through. May Your pleasure be my pleasure, too. May I be Your joy, the joy that a Father feels for a son. And may I think of You calmly and with determination, even when I find it hard to say I love You. ~ Paulo Coelho,

960:Perhaps it is only the Earth that will speak the leftist language now, battered and infuriated as she is by Modi's developmental agenda. Perhaps she will unleash her fury through the weapons of storms, thunder, lightning, rain, floods and earthquakes. In Modi's enthusiasm for development, the atmosphere is further filled with factory smoke. Tribals who live close to nature have nowhere to go. In the hubris of extreme progress, man, suffering revulsion from excessive consumption, may see the need for change. If not, the Earth will speak. ~ U R Ananthamurthy,

961:Theosophists for instance will preach an obviously attractive idea like re-incarnation; but if we wait for its logical results, they are spiritual superciliousness and the cruelty of caste. For if a man is a beggar by his own pre-natal sins, people will tend to despise the beggar. But Christianity preaches an obviously unattractive idea, such as original sin; but when we wait for its results, they are pathos and brotherhood, and a thunder of laughter and pity; for only with original sin we can at once pity the beggar and distrust the king. ~ G K Chesterton,

962:They rounded a corner in thunder and siren, with concussion of tires, with scream of rubber with a shift of kerosene bulk in the glittery brass tank, like the food in the stomach of a giant, with Montag's fingers jolting off the silver rail, swinging into cold space, with the wind tearing his hair back from his head, with the wind whistling in his teeth, and him all the while thinking of the women, the chaff women in his parlor tonight, with the kernels blown out from under them by a neon wind, and his silly damned reading of a book to them. ~ Ray Bradbury,

963:Let me say this. It was worth the whole awful, irritating time spemt searching the Archives just to watch that moment happen. It was worth blood and the fear of death to see her fall in love with him. Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love, so light she probably didn't notice it herself. It wasn't dramatic , like some bolt of lightning with a crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and the spark fades almost to fast for you to see. But still, you know it's there, down where you can't see kindling. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

964:The two forces met with a fearful din of spears and bossed shields, clashing in a fierce and furious melees of bronze-breasted fighters. And there the screams of the dying were mingled with cries of triumph s blood flowed over the earth. As when two winter torrents flow down from great mountain springs to mingle their turbulent floods; where the two streams meet and thunder on down a deep gorge, and the shepherd far off in the mountains hears the roar, so now as the two armies clashed in the fury of battle a terrible roar of toil and shouting arose. ~ Homer,

965:Bronze Trumpets And Sea Water - On Turning Latin Into English Alembics turn to stranger things Strange things, but never while we live Shall magic turn this bronze that sings To singing water in a sieve. The trumpets of Cæsar's guard Salute his rigorous bastions With ordered bruit; the bronze is hard Though there is silver in the bronze. Our mutable tongue is like the sea, Curled wave and shattering thunder-fit; Dangle in strings of sand shall he Who smoothes the ripples out of it. ~ Elinor Morton Wylie,

966:Let me say this. It was worth the whole awful, irritating time spent searching the Archives just to watch that moment happen. It was worth blood and the fear of death to see her fall in love with him. Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love, so light she probably didn't notice it herself. It wasn't dramatic, like some bolt of lightning with a crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and the spark fades almost too fast for you to see. But still, you know it's there, down where you can't see, kindling. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

967:Let me say this. It was worth the whole awful, irritating time spent searching the Archives just to watch that moment happen. It was worth blood and the fear of death to see her fall in love with him. Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love, so light she probably didn’t notice it herself. It wasn’t dramatic, like some bolt of lightning with a crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and the spark fades almost too fast for you to see. But still, you know it’s there, down where you can’t see, kindling. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

968:For those minutes courage flowed like wine out of the November dusk, and he was the eternal hero, one with the sea-rover on the prow of a Norse galley, one with Roland and Horatius, Sir Nigel and Ted Coy, scraped and stripped into trim and then flung by his own will into the breach, beating back the tide, hearing from afar the thunder of cheers… finally bruised and weary, but still elusive, circling an end, twisting, changing pace, straight-arming… falling behind the Groton goal with two men on his legs, in the only touchdown of the game. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

969:Such faithless people (I say) are also persuaded that neither hail nor snow, thunder nor lightning, rain nor tempestuous winds come from the heavens at the commandment of God, but are raised by are raised by the cunning and power of witches and conjurers; insomuch as a clap of thunder, or a gale of wind is no sooner heard, but either they run to ring bells, or cry out to burn witches, or else burn considerate things, hoping by the smoke thereof to drive the Devil out of the air, as though spirits could be frightened away with such external toys. ~ Katherine Howe,

970:All things are moral; and in their boundless changes have an unceasing reference to spiritual nature. Therefore is nature glorious with form, color, and motion, that every globe in the remotest heaven; every chemical change from the rudest crystal up to the laws of life; every change of vegetation from the first principle of growth in the eye of a leaf, to the tropical forest and antediluvian coal-mine; every animal function from the sponge up to Hercules, shall hint or thunder to man the laws of right and wrong, and echo the Ten Commandments. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

971:Phases Of The Moon Once upon a time I heard That the flying moon was a Phoenix bird; Thus she sails through windy skies, Thus in the willow's arms she lies; Turn to the East or turn to the West In many trees she makes her nest. When she's but a pearly thread Look among birch leaves overhead; When she dies in yellow smoke Look in a thunder-smitten oak; But in May when the moon is full, Bright as water and white as wool, Look for her where she loves to be, Asleep in a high magnolia tree. ~ Elinor Morton Wylie,

972:I'm twenty-three years old, I'm working graveyard in the fucking mine and I been there since I was sixteen. I'll be thee until it kills me or I'm too fucking old. I ain't got no out. I don't mind that. I got Emma and I got the kids and I got the Moose until I'm too damn old for that too. But someone reached down and put lightning bolts in your legs, Saul. Someone put thunder in your wrist shot and eyes in the back of your fucking head. You were made for this game. So you gotta give this a shot for all of us who're never gonna get out of Manitouwadge. ~ Richard Wagamese,

973:I am as a spirit who has dwelt Within his heart of hearts, and I have felt His feelings, and have thought his thoughts, and known The inmost converse of his soul, the tone Unheard but in the silence of his blood, When all the pulses in their multitude Image the trembling calm of summer seas. I have unlocked the golden melodies Of his deep soul, as with a master-key, And loosened them and bathed myself therein-- Even as an eagle in a thunder-mist Clothing his wings with lightning. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Fragment - Wedded Souls ,

974:There are times in history when the dark drums of God can barely be heard amid the noises of this world. Then it is only in moments of silence, which are rare and brief, that their beat can be faintly discerned. There are other times. These are the times when God is heard in rolling thunder, when the earth trembles and the treetops bend under the force of [God’s] voice. It is not given to men [and women] to make God speak. It is only given to them to live and to think in such a way that, if God’s thunder should come, they will not have stopped their ears. ~ Peter L Berger,

975:For those minutes courage flowed like wine out of the November dusk, and he was the eternal hero, one with the sea-rover on the prow of a Norse galley, one with Roland and Horatius, Sir Nigel and Ted Coy, scraped and stripped into trim and then flung by his own will into the breach, beating back the tide, hearing from afar the thunder of cheers . . . finally bruised and weary, but still elusive, circling an end, twisting, changing pace, straight-arming . . . falling behind the Groton goal with two men on his legs, in the only touchdown of the game. THE ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

976:I have ridden the skies in great machines I hooked up and jumped with the very best of men. I have marched long and hard, and when I felt I had no energy left, I was fueled by the fear that if I stopped, my Brothers would die. And when I was in danger, enemy all around, I heard the thunder from my left and from my right, as my life was defended by these very same Brothers. I was never alone. For I lived, jumped, sweat, bled, cursed, drank, fought and battled to victory with the greatest collection of men on planet Earth. For I was a MOATENGATOR! ~ Jos N Harris,

977:Ter refused to ride buses. The people depressed him, sitting there. He liked Greyhound stations though. We used to go to the ones in San Francisco and Oakland. Mostly Oakland, on San Pablo Avenue. Once he told me he loved me because I was like San Pablo Avenue. He was like the Berkeley dump. I wish there was a bus to the dump. We went there when we got homesick for New Mexico. It is stark and windy and gulls soar like nighthawks in the desert. You can see the sky all around you and above you. Garbage trucks thunder through dust-billowing roads. Gray dinosaurs. ~ Lucia Berlin,

978:The Twelve Most Common Phobias   1. Arachnophobia: the fear of spiders   2. Ophidiophobia: the fear of snakes   3. Acrophobia: the fear of heights   4. Agoraphobia: the fear of open or crowded spaces   5. Cynophobia: the fear of dogs   6. Astraphobia: the fear of thunder or lightning   7. Claustrophobia: the fear of small spaces like elevators, cramped rooms, and other enclosed places   8. Mysophobia: the fear of germs   9. Aerophobia: the fear of flying 10. Trypophobia: the fear of holes 11. Carcinophobia: the fear of cancer 12. Thanatophobia: the fear of death ~ Tali Sharot,

979:ISABELLA Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, For every pelting, petty officer Would use his heaven for thunder; Nothing but thunder! Merciful Heaven, Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak Than the soft myrtle: but man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens, Would all themselves laugh mortal. ~ William Shakespeare,

980:You got to understand the god thing. It’s not magic. It’s about being you, but the you that people believe in. It’s about being the concentrated, magnified, essence of you. It’s about becoming thunder, or the power of a running horse, or wisdom. You take all the belief and become bigger, cooler, more than human. You crystallize.” He paused. “And then one day they forget about you, and they don’t believe in you, and they don’t sacrifice, and they don’t care, and the next thing you know you’re running a three-card monte game on the corner of Broadway and Forty-third. ~ Neil Gaiman,

981:God is a God of galaxies, of storms, of roaring seas and boiling thunder, but He is also the God of bread baking, of a child's smile, of dust motes in the sun. He is who He is, and always shall be. Look around you now. He is speaking always and everywhere. His personality can be seen and known and leaned upon. The sun is belching flares while mountains scrape our sky while ants are milking aphids on their colonial leaves and dolphins are laughing in the surf and wheat is rippling and wind is whipping and a boy is looking into the eyes of a girl and mortals are dying. ~ N D Wilson,

982:I don't know the word for the feeling if there is one, but it's that feeling you get - or I hope you get it, anyway - when you realize the smallness of you, and the largeness of Everything Else. I'm not saying God necessarily. I'm saying you're outside at night and it's raining and you don't have an umbrella and you're running to get inside but then you stop and maybe you hold your hands palms up and feel the rain pound against your fingerprints and soak through your clothes and your wet hair against your neck and you realize how amazing it is while the thunder cracks. ~ John Green,

983:And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son? And what did you hear, my darling young one? I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin' Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin' Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin' Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin' Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall ~ Bob Dylan,

984:And Tenar listened to the sea, a few yards below the cave mouth, crashing and sucking and booming on the rocks, and the thunder of it down the beach eastward for miles. Over and over and over it made the same sounds, yet never quite the same. It never rested. On all the shores of all the lands in all the world, it heaved itself in these unresting waves, and never ceased, and never was still. The desert, the mountains: they stood still. They did not cry out forever in a great, dull voice. The sea spoke forever, but its language was foreign to her. She did not understand. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

985:Epistle No. 36 Our Ulla lay one morning and slept, A hand beneath her ear; Her key alone the taverner kept Or through its hole might peer. Outside in the tavern, sir, All was nocturnally quiet; Beer was none, nor, I'll aver, Scarce water to supply it. On tip-toes He comes and goes About her bedside, brothers; Lifts a bit Of coverlet, And whispers with the others. Ulla quivers, Snores and shivers, O'er her head the blanket piles; Snuggles under, With a thunder; Turns about and smiles. ~ Carl Michael Bellman,

986:Think you a little din can daunt mine ears? Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard the sea, puffed up with winds, Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? Have I not heard great ordinance in the field, And Heaven's artillery thunder in the skies? Have I not in a pitched battle heard Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang? And do you tell me of a woman's tongue, That gives not half so great a blow to hear As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire? Tush! tush! fear boys with bugs. Grumio: For he fears none. ~ William Shakespeare,

987:Decide for yourselves as to what you should thing of those who say there is God, that he is the preserver of justice and that he is the protector of all, even after seeing the practice of untouchablity in the form of man being banned from human sight and contact, from walking into the streets, from entering the temples and drawing water from a tank, is rampant in the land, and yet that land is not spared from being razed by an earthquake, burnt by the fiery lava of a volcano, engulfed in a deluge from the ocean, submerged in the chasm of the earth, or fragemented by thunder-storm. ~ Periyar,

988:He was dimly angry with himself, he did not know why. It was that he had struck his wife. He had forgotten it, but was miserable about it, notwithstanding. And this misery was the voice of the great Love that had made him and his wife and the baby and Diamond, speaking in his heart, and telling him to be good. For that great Love speaks in the most wretched and dirty hearts; only the tone of its voice depends on the echoes of the place in which it sounds. On Mount Sinai, it was thunder; in the cabman's heart it was misery; in the soul of St John it was perfect blessedness. ~ George MacDonald,

989:Huge clouds were already careering in the skies, and distant flashes announced a tempest. About ten o'clock, the storm burst forth; and Milady found some consolation in seeing Nature partake of the commotion within her. The thunder bellowed in the air like the angry passions in her soul; and it seemed to her as if the passing gusts disturbed her brow, as they did the trees of which they bent down the branches and sept off the leaves. She howled like the tempest, but her voice was unheard Amidst the vast voice of Nature, which also appeared to be herself groaning in despair. ~ Alexandre Dumas,

990:Louis 'Thunder Thumbs' Johnson was one of the greatest bass players to ever pick up the instrument, as a member of the Brothers Johnson, we shared decades of magical times working together in the studio and touring the world. From my albums 'Body Heat' and 'Mellow Madness,' to their platinum albums 'Look Out for #1,' 'Right On Time,' 'Blam' and 'Light Up the Night,' which I produced, to Michael's solo debut 'Off the Wall,' I considered Louis a core member of my production team. He was a dear and beloved friend and brother, and I will miss his presence and joy of life every day. ~ Quincy Jones,

991:Who has not in his great grief felt a longing to look upon the outward features of the universal Mother; to lie on the mountains and watch the clouds drive across the sky and hear the rollers break in thunder on the shore, to let his poor struggling life mingle for a while in her life; to feel the slow beat of her eternal heart, and to forget his woes, and let his identity be swallowed in the vast imperceptibly moving energy of her of whom we are, from whom we came, and with whom we shall again be mingled, who gave us birth, and will in a day to come give us our burial also. ~ H Rider Haggard,

992:I once thought that would be the consummation of all joy—to be united by a bond of love—to be lost in His presence there as if nothing else mattered. "And now—there is much more. Instead of myself and my Christ and my love and my prayer, there is the might of a prayer stronger than thunder and milder than the flight of doves rising up from the Priest who is the Center of every priest, shaking the foundations of the universe and lifting up—me, Host, altar, sanctuary, people, church, abbey, forest, cities, continents, seas and worlds to God and plunging everything into Him. ~ Thomas Merton,

993:Isn't it a riddle . . . and awe-inspiring, that everything is so beautiful? Despite the horror. Lately I've noticed something grand and mysterious peering through my sheer joy in all that is beautiful, a sense of its creator . . . Only man can be truly ugly, because he has the free will to estrange himself from this song of praise. It often seems that he'll manage to drown out this hymn with his cannon thunder, curses and blasphemy. But during this past spring it has dawned upon me that he won't be able to do this. And so I want to try and throw myself on the side of the victor. ~ Sophie Scholl,

994:XIII I think about your sex. My heart simplified, I think about your sex, before the ripe daughterloin of day. I touch the bud of joy, it is in season. And an ancient sentiment dies degenerated into brains. I think about your sex, furrow more prolific and harmonious than the belly of the Shadow, though Death conceives and bears from God himself. Oh Conscience, I am thinking, yes, about the free beast who takes pleasure where he wants, where he can. Oh, scandal of the honey of twilights. Oh mute thunder. Rednuhtetum! ~ Cesar Vallejo,

995:Generally the thunder-storms came in the afternoon, but once I saw one at sunrise, driving down the high mountain valleys toward us. It was a very beautiful and almost terrible sight; for the sun rose behind the storm, and shone through the gusty rifts, lighting the mountain-crests here and there, while the plain below lay shrouded in the lingering night. The angry, level rays edged the dark clouds with crimson, and turned the downpour into sheets of golden rain; in the valleys the glimmering mists were tinted every wild hue; and the remotest heavens were lit with flaming glory. ~ Theodore Roosevelt,

996:When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy. When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song. When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest. When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king. When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Beggarly Heart ,

997:The Church Of Unbent Knees AS I went by the church to-day I heard the organ cry; And goodly folk were on their knees, But I went striding by. My My My My minister hath a roof more vast: aisles are oak-trees high; altar-cloth is on the hills, organ is the sky. I see my rood upon the clouds, The winds, my chanted choir; My crystal windows, heaven-glazed, Are stained with sunset fire. The stars, the thunder, and the rain, White sands and purple seasThese are His pulpit and His pew, My God of Unbent Knees! ~ Christopher Morley,

998:Therefore, seeing the Lord, when he doth speak, doth speak by others, and there is a great deal of reason for it, because it is your own request, let not God fare the worse in delivering his word; do not condemn it because men are fain to deliver it to you, for it is your own request. If he should speak himself, he would strike you dead at every word; therefore do not take advantage because God doth not back it with thunder, but receive the word as the word of God; for God himself would speak to you, if you were able to bear him; but because you are not, therefore he speaks by others. ~ Thomas Goodwin,

999:A new beginning done right," she said out loud, because everyone knew that saying it out loud made it true. "You hear that, karma?" She glanced upward through her slightly leaky sunroof into a dark sky, where storm clouds tumbled together like a dryer full of gray wool blankets. "This time, I'm gong to be strong." Like Katharine Hepburn. Like Ingrid Bergman ."So go torture someone else and leave me alone." A bolt of lightning blinded her, followed by a boom of thunder that nearly had her jerking out of her skin. "Okay, so I meant pretty please leave me alone." -Maddie ~ Jill Shalvis,

1000:Thunderstorms were common in Sarantium on midsummer nights, sufficiently so to make plausible the oft-repeated tale that the Emperor Apius passed to the god in the midst of a towering storm, with lightning flashing and rolls of thunder besieging the Holy City. Even Pertennius of Eubulus, writing only twenty years after, told the story this way, adding a statue of the Emperor toppling before the bronze gates to the Imperial Precinct and an oak tree split asunder just outside the landward walls. Writers of history often seek the dramatic over the truth. It is a failing of the profession. ~ Guy Gavriel Kay,

1001:Dixon, our, um, Lives? are in Danger?” “Hardly enough to interrupt a perfectly good—” Here he is silenc’d by an immense Thunder-Bolt from directly overhead, as their frail Prism is bleach’d in unholy Light. “— Saturday Night for, is it I ask you . . . ?” his Head emerging at last from beneath a Blanket, “Mason? Say, Mason,— are thee . . . ?” Mason, now outside, pushes aside the Tent-flap with his head, but does not enter. “Dixon. I will now seek Shelter beneath that Waggon out there, d’ye see it? If you wish to join me, there’s room.” “Bit too much Iron there for me, thanks all the same. ~ Thomas Pynchon,

1002:Frying Pan's Theology Shock-headed blackfellow, Boy (on a pony). Snowflakes are falling Gentle and slow, Youngster says, "Frying Pan What makes it snow?" Frying Pan, confident, Makes the reply -"Shake 'im big flour bag Up in the sky!" "What! when there's miles of it? Surely that's brag. Who is there strong enough Shake such a bag?" "What parson tellin' you, Ole Mister Dodd, Tell you in Sunday-School? Big pfeller God! "Him drive 'im bullock dray, Then thunder go; Him shake 'im flour bag -Tumble down snow!" ~ Banjo Paterson,

1003:1128 To Interrupt His Yellow Plan 591 To interrupt His Yellow Plan The Sun does not allow Caprices of the Atmosphere— And even when the Snow Heaves Balls of Specks, like Vicious Boy Directly in His Eye— Does not so much as turn His Head Busy with Majesty— 'Tis His to stimulate the Earth— And magnetize the Sea— And bind Astronomy, in place, Yet Any passing by Would deem Ourselves—the busier As the Minutest Bee That rides—emits a Thunder— A Bomb—to justify— ~ Emily Dickinson,

1004:And they heard the roaring thunder of a third brilliantly lighted express. "Are they pursuing the first travelers?" demanded the little prince. "They are pursuing nothing at all," said the switchman. "They are asleep in there, or if they are not asleep they are yawning. Only the children are flattening their noses against the windowpanes." "Only the children know what they are looking for," said the little prince. "They waste their time over a rag doll and it becomes very important to them; and if anybody takes it away from them, they cry..." "They are lucky," the switchman said. ~ Antoine de Saint Exupery,

1005:So far as Emma was concerned she did not ask herself whether she was in love. Love, she thought, was something that must come suddenly, with a great display of thunder and lightning, descending on one's life like a tempest from above, turning it topsy-turvy, whirling away one's resolutions like leaves and bearing one onward, heart and soul, towards the abyss. She never bethought herself how on the terrace of a house the rain forms itself into little lakes when the gutters are choked, and she was going on quite unaware of her peril, when all of a sudden she discovered--a crack in the wall! ~ Gustave Flaubert,

1006:Storm, Momentary, Forever Then summer said goodbye to the station. Lifting its cap, the thunder took souvenirs, hundreds of shots on the fly. The lilac went black. And that instant, gathering whole armfuls of lightning, the far clearing lit the white station-master’s shack. And when the whole roof ran with a fierce torrent of malice, and, like charcoal onto a sketch, the rain crashed down on the fence, consciousness started to flash, here, it seems, flooding in play even the corners of mind where it’s always bright as day. ~ Boris Pasternak,

1007:The Subway Dark accurate plunger down the successive knell Of arch on arch, where ogives burst a red Reverberance of hail upon the dead Thunder like an exploding crucible! Harshly articulate, musical steel shell Of angry worship, hurled religiously Upon your business of humility Into the iron forestries of hell: Till broken in the shift of quieter Dense altitudes tangential of your steel, I am become geometries, and glut Expansions like a blind astronomer Dazed, while the worldless heavens bulge and reel In the cold revery of an idiot. ~ Allen Tate,

1008:The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets three-wise silverflamed, and there by the door the timps rolling through my guts and out again crunched like candy thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then, a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now, came the violin solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like a cage of silk around my bed. Then flute and oboe bored, like worms of like platinum, into the thick thick toffee gold and silver. I was in such bliss, my brothers. ~ Anthony Burgess,

1009:Human intellectual progress, such as it has been, results from our long struggle to see things 'as they are,' or in the most universally comprehensible way, and not as projections of our own emotions. Thunder is not a tantrum in the sky, disease is not a divine punishment, and not every death or accident results from witchcraft. What we call the Enlightenment and hold on to only tenuously, by our fingernails, is the slow-dawning understanding that the world is unfolding according to its own inner algorithms of cause and effect, probability and chance, without any regard for human feelings. ~ Barbara Ehrenreich,

1010:It was the red vision of the revolution, which would one day inevitably carry them all away, on some bloody evening at the end of the century. Yes, some evening the people, unbridled at last, would thus gallop along the roads, making the blood of the middle class flow, parading severed heads and sprinkling gold from disembowelled coffers. The women would yell, the men would have those wolf-like jaws open to bite. Yes, the same rags, the same thunder of great sabots, the same terrible troop, with dirty skins and tainted breath, sweeping away the old world beneath an overflowing flood of barbarians. ~ mile Zola,

1011:I roamed the countryside searching for the answers to things I did not understand. Why shells existed on the tops of mountains along with the imprints of coral and plant and seaweed usually found in the sea. Why the thunder lasts a longer time than that which causes it and why immediately on its creation the lightening becomes visible to the eye while thunder requires time to travel. How the various circles of water form around the spot which has been struck by a stone and why a bird sustains itself in the air. These questions and other strange phenomena engaged my thought throughout my life. ~ Leonardo da Vinci,

1012:His stories were not always new, but there was in the telling of them a special kind of magic. His voice could roll like thunder or hush down into a zepherlike whisper. He could imitate the voices of a dozen men at once; whistle so like a bird that the birds themselves would come to him to hear what he had to say; and when when he imitated the howl of a wolf, the sound could raise the hair on the backs of his listeners' necks and strike a chill into their hearts like the depths of a Drasnian winter. He could make the sound of rain and of wind and even, most miraculously, the sound of snow falling. ~ David Eddings,

1013:Why is there so much evil in the world?” She sighed. It had been easier when he was younger and was asking where thunder comes from and how do chicks know when to hatch themselves. “Evil?” she said now, doubting his understanding of the word. “What kind of evil do you mean?” “Like the war, those terrible things Jan went through, the Jews and all that.” “Oh.” She was silent for such a long breath that he wondered if she intended to answer. It was the duty of grandparents to inform the generations of the conditions into which they had been born. Though silence itself might speak most eloquently. ~ Michael D O Brien,

1014:Weakness or strength: there you are, strength. You do not know where you are going, nor why you are going; enter anywhere, reply to anything. They will no more kill you than if you were a corpse.” In the morning I had a look so lost, a face so dead, that perhaps those whom I met did not see me. In cities, suddenly, the mud seemed red and black like a mirror when the lamp moves about in the adjoining room, like a treasure in the forest! Good luck, I cried, and I saw a sea of flames and smoke in the sky; to the right, to the left all the riches of the world flaming like a billion thunder-bolts. ~ Arthur Rimbaud,

1015:Ars Poetica II" I find, after all these years, I am a believer— I believe what the thunder and lightning have to say; I believe that dreams are real, and that death has two reprisals; I believe that dead leaves and black water fill my heart. I shall die like a cloud, beautiful, white, full of nothingness. The night sky is an ideogram, a code card punched with holes. It thinks it’s the word of what’s-to-come. It thinks this, but it’s only The Library of Last Resort, The reflected light of The Great Misunderstanding. God is the fire my feet are held to. ~ Charles Wright,

1016:The Tortoise In Eternity Within my house of patterned horn I sleep in such a bed As men may keep before they're born And after when they're dead. Sticks and stones may break their bones, And words may make them bleed; There is not one of them who owns An armour to his need. Tougher than hide or lozenged bark, Snow-storm and thunder proof, And quick with sun, and thick with dark, Is this my darling roof. Men's troubled dreams of death and birth Puls mother-o'-pearl to black; I bear the rainbow bubble Earth Square on my scornful back. ~ Elinor Morton Wylie,

1017:Heavy leather and clinks of steel toes thunder toward me. Toombs plows into me like a bullet and tangles his arms around my waist, catching some of my hair in his splayed fingers. His lips crash into mine and swindle the oxygen right out of my lungs. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Toombs is kissing me. I’m dizzy, drunk from his touch. His lips are softer than I imagined. Gentle. Giving. Tender. And Jesus, up close he smells divine—a combination of the cinnamon gum he chews and the bottle of cheap body wash I’ve sniffed in the shower a dozen times. On him, it’s heaven. ~ Kendall Grey,

1018:Nevertheless, ere long, the warm, warbling persuasiveness of the pleasant, holiday weather we came to, seemed gradually to charm him from his mood. For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts, to welcome such gladhearted visitants; so Ahab did, in the end, a little respond to the playful allurings of that girlish air. More than once did he put forth the faint blossom of a look, which, in any other man, would have soon flowered out in a smile. ~ Herman Melville,

1019:You know that you are a writer if you are imaginative. You know that you are a writer if you are curious. You know that you are a writer if you are interested in the things and people of the world. You know that you are a writer if you hold a minie ball in your hand and wonder about its story. You know that you are a writer if you like the sound of rain on the roof. And if you want to tell someone else about your heart and how waiting for the thunder sometimes makes you feel, if you work to find the words to do that, then you are a writer. --Maureen O'Toople in the short story "Your Question for Author Here ~ Jon Scieszka,

1020:direction?” “Easy McSqueezy.” The sword tugged at my arm. “I’m reading a big concentration of hot air and thunder that way!” Sam and I helped Hearthstone to his feet. He wasn’t looking too good. His lips were pale green. He wobbled like he’d just gotten off a Tilt-a-Whirl. “Otis,” Sam said, “can our friend ride you? It might be quicker.” “Sure,” the goat said. “Ride me, kill me, whatever. But I should warn you, this is Jotunheim. If we go the wrong way, we’ll run across giants. Then we’ll all be butchered and put in a stew pot.” “We won’t go the wrong way,” I promised. “Will we, Jack?” “Hmm?” said the sword. ~ Rick Riordan,

1021:Poetry Sometimes I tremble like a storm-swept flower, And seek to hide my tortured soul from thee. Bowing my head in deep humility Before the silent thunder of thy power. Sometimes I flee before thy blazing light, As from the specter of pursuing death; Intimidated lest thy mighty breath, Windways, will sweep me into utter night. For oh, I fear they will be swallowed up-The loves which are to me of vital worth, My passion and my pleasure in the earth-And lost forever in thy magic cup! I fear, I fear my truly human heart Will perish on the altar-stone of art! ~ Claude McKay,

1022:I'm going to say this one time and one time only, so you had better listen up. The world is going to hell in a hand basket. We got Jacque running off into ponds like a crazy woman; Fane thinking he's Aqua Man, diving in after her and getting his ass captured by the wicked witch; we have freak lightening shows; thunder that shakes the ground; and wind strong enough to knock you over. And you know what's really scary? It's going to get worse before it gets better. The fan is broken from all the shit that has hit it. Yes, I have a potty mouth. I get to have one when the world as we know it is crumbling around us. ~ Quinn Loftis,

1023:But the kingdom of God does not consist in the Law; it consists in the Word of the promise. Today it is commonly said: “He loves the Word. He loves the Word of the Gospel, or the ministry.” But in the papal decretals and canons you will not find even a syllable about the Word. They thunder only about the confession of sins, contrition, satisfaction, obedience to the pope, and the observance of monastic rules. But there is the deepest silence concerning the promises. Accordingly, the papal kingdom was a horrible devastation of the church, and even now promise is an unheard-of word to the pope and the cardinals. ~ Martin Luther,

1024:I look at you And I want to build things Four walls A roof A room with a view I look at you And I want to build things A stack of logs A roaring fire A starlit night with you I look at you And I want to build things Hike a secret trail where the world cannot find us A bench built for two Picture this - lightning and thunder Picture this- my telephone number Picture this- discovery and wonder Picture this- the moon as we slumber I look at you And I want to build things I just need my hands Your smile And for you to want this too ~ Jos N Harris,

1025:Thunderstorm, Instantaneous Forever After this the halt and summer Parted company; and taking Off his cap at night the thunder Took a hundred blinding stills. Lilac clusters faded; plucking Off an armful of new lightnings, From the field he tried to throw them At the mansion in the hills. And when waves of evil laughter Rolled along the iron roofing And, like charcoal on a drawing, Showers thundered on the fence, Then the crumbling mind began to Blink; it seemed it would be floodlit Even in those distant comers Where the light is now intense. ~ Boris Pasternak,

1026:The Golden Mean. Who founded firm and sure Would ever live secure, In spite of storm and blast Immovable and fast; Whoso would fain deride The ocean's threatening tide;— His dwelling should not seek On sands or mountain-peak. Upon the mountain's height The storm-winds wreak their spite: The shifting sands disdain Their burden to sustain. Do thou these perils flee, Fair though the prospect be, And fix thy resting-place On some low rock's sure base. Then, though the tempests roar, Seas thunder on the shore, Thou in thy stronghold blest And undisturbed shalt rest; Live all thy days serene, And mock the heavens' spleen. ~ Anonymous,

1027:They passed the Gates of Thermopylae the following day and Alexander stopped to visit the tombs of the Spartan soldiers who had fallen one hundred and forty years previously during their battle with the Persian invaders. He read the simple inscription in Laconian dialect that commemorated their ultimate sacrifice and he stood in silence listening to the wind blowing in from the sea. How ephemeral is the destiny of man!’ he exclaimed. ‘All that is left of the thunder of a momentous clash which shook the whole world and an act of heroism worthy of Homer’s verses are these few lines. All is quiet now. ~ Valerio Massimo Manfredi,

1028:The most popular god was Thor, Odin’s son. Thor had great strength and controlled thunder, lightning, and giant storms. People pictured him as having a flaming red beard and a huge hammer. Thor raced across the heavens in a chariot pulled by two goats. As the chariot barreled along, it made thunder shake the earth. When Thor threw his hammer, dazzling streaks of lightning flashed across the sky. Each time he tossed it, the hammer whizzed right back to him. To honor Thor, Vikings often wore necklaces with little hammers on them. The word Thursday comes from Thor’s name. And guess what? It means “thunder’s day”! ~ Mary Pope Osborne,

1029:Many A Phrase Has The English Language 276 Many a phrase has the English language— I have heard but one— Low as the laughter of the Cricket, Loud, as the Thunder's Tongue— Murmuring, like old Caspian Choirs, When the Tide's a' lull— Saying itself in new infection— Like a Whippoorwill— Breaking in bright Orthography On my simple sleep— Thundering its Prospective— Till I stir, and weep— Not for the Sorrow, done me— But the push of Joy— Say it again, Saxton! Hush—Only to me! ~ Emily Dickinson,

1030:Actually, I hardly feel constrained to try to make head or tail of this condition of the world. On this planet a great number of civilizations have perished in blood and thunder. Naturally, one must wish for the planet that one day it will experience a civilization that has abandoned blood and horror, in fact, I am . . . inclined to assume that our planet is waiting for this. But it is terribly doubtful whether we can bring such a present to its hundred—or four-hundred-millionth birthday party. And if we don’t, the planet will finally punish us, its unthoughtful well-wishers, by presenting us with the Last Judgment. ~ Walter Benjamin,

1031:And they heard the roaring thunder of a third brilliantly lighted express. "Are they pursuing the first travelers?" demanded the little prince. "They are pursuing nothing at all," said the switchman. "They are asleep in there, or if they are not asleep they are yawning. Only the children are flattening their noses against the windowpanes." "Only the children know what they are looking for," said the little prince. "They waste their time over a rag doll and it becomes very important to them; and if anybody takes it away from them, they cry..." "They are lucky," the switchman said. ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

1032:Clench clench these strong teeth in this strong mouth. My mouth. Of my body. In my house. My mouth? Chapped lips swollen and bloody? Dream dreaming wide and thunder? My mouth! My God! This is me speaking. Not mouthing. Not typing and twitching. Not writing a suicide note the length of a novel that will never be finished. I hear voices now but I know they are not the voices of fathers or lovers, or mothers or angels or demons, but the sounds of my own private wars echoing the battles of women before me and near me. No wonder I do not make people comfortable. I am a mirror. I have far too many things to say. (p. 237-238) ~ Camilla Gibb,

1033:He wanted to argue like this forever. This was better than nothing. There was no exhausting his anger at his father, and every word, however well intentioned or intentionally barbed, was a pull at a scab on his bloody heart. It was too late for any of this. There could ultimately be no healing. Marty had terminal cancer, and so did the two men have a cancer between them. They were terminal together, as father and son. They remained, momentarily exhausted, but it was really only that quiet between lightning and thunder as sound lags behind speed. The lightning had cracked the ground already, you just hadn't heard it yet. ~ David Duchovny,

1034:It is a secret which every intellectual man quickly learns, that, beyond the energy of his possessed and conscious intellect, he is capable of a new energy (as of an intellect doubled on itself), by abandonment to the nature of things; that, beside his privacy of power as an individual man, there is a great public power, on which he can draw, by unlocking, at all risks, his human doors, and suffering the ethereal tides to roll and circulate through him: then is he caught up into the life of the Universe, his speech is thunder, his thought is law, and his words are universally intelligible as the plants and animals. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

1035:Shall Gods Be Said To Thump The Clouds Shall gods be said to thump the clouds When clouds are cursed by thunder, Be said to weep when weather howls? Shall rainbows be their tunics' colour? When it is rain where are the gods? Shall it be said they sprinkle water From garden cans, or free the floods? Shall it be said that, venuswise, An old god's dugs are pressed and pricked, The wet night scolds me like a nurse? It shall be said that gods are stone. Shall a dropped stone drum on the ground, Flung gravel chime? Let the stones speak With tongues that talk all tongues. ~ Dylan Thomas,

1036:His first coming He was wrapped in swadding clothes. In His second coming He will be clothed royally in a robe dipped in blood. common people. In His second coming He will be accompanied by the massive armies of heaven. In His first coming the door of the inn was closed to Him. In His second coming the door of the heavens will be opened to Him. In His first coming His voice was the tiny cry of a baby. In His second coming His voice will thunder as the sound of many waters. In His first coming, He was the lamp of God who came bringing salvation. In His second coming, He will be the Lion of the tribe of Judah who comes bringing ~ David Jeremiah,

1037:Gentlemen, we are all cruel, we are all monsters, we all make people weep, mothers and nursing babies, but of all--let it be settled here and now--of all, I am the lowest vermin! So be it! Every day of my life I've been beating my breast and promising to reform, and every day I've done the same vile things. I understand now that for men such as I a blow is needed, a blow of fate, to catch them as with a noose and bind them by an external force. Never, never would I have risen by myself! But the thunder has struck. I accept the torment of accusation and of my disgrace before all, I want to suffer and be purified by suffering! ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

1038:He could smell the earth and the trees around the shallow lake beneath the balcony. It was a cloudy night and very dark, just a hint of glow directly above, where the clouds were lit by the shining Plates of the Orbital’s distant daylight side. Waves lapped in the darkness, loud slappings against the hulls of unseen boats. Lights twinkled round the edges of the lake, where low college buildings were set among the trees. The party was a presence at his back, something unseen, surging like the sound and smell of thunder from the faculty building; music and laughter and the scents of perfumes and food and exotic, unidentifiable fumes. ~ Iain M Banks,

1039:She was his lover. Beth laughed for the delight of it. Being with Ian was decidedly unrespectable, and she felt freer than she'd ever felt in her life. Under him, she could spread her wings. Beth laughed again. She was spreading herself as far as she could. Ian's eyes were closed, his face twisted in pleasure. His thrusts accelerated, his hips pounding as if it were the last coupling he'd ever have. He drove her into the mattress, his body heavy on hers, his sweat dripping onto her skin. Rain streamed against the windows, and a boom of thunder swallowed Beth's sudden cry of ecstasy. Ian shouted, not waiting for thunder. ~ Jennifer Ashley,

1040:The Odyssey AS one that for a weary space has lain Lull'd by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, Where that Aeaean isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain, And only shadows of wan lovers pine-As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again-So gladly from the songs of modern speech Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, And through the music of the languid hours They hear like Ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey. ~ Andrew Lang,

1041:At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argument, is needed. O! had I the ability, and could reach the nation's ear, I would, to-day, pour out a fiery stream of biting ridicule, blasting reproach, withering sarcasm, and stern rebuke. For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. The feeling of the nation must be quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the nation must be exposed; and its crimes against God and man must be proclaimed and denounced. ~ Frederick Douglass,

1042:I love thy music, mellow bell, I love thine iron chime, To life or death, to heaven or hell, Which calls the sons of Time. Thy voice upon the deep The home-bound sea-boy hails, It charms his cares to sleep, It cheers him as he sails. To house of God and heavenly joys Thy summons called our sires, And good men thought thy sacred voice Disarmed the thunder's fires. And soon thy music, sad death-bell, Shall lift its notes once more, And mix my requiem with the wind That sweeps my native shore. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 198 ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Bell ,

1043:The Accuser carried on his argument. “But this covenant maker is not merely a tyrant, he is a totalitarian puppet master who is the author of evil. What kind of creator makes earthquakes that demolish entire cities and kills the populace under mountains of rubble? Or a hurricane that drowns shiploads of sailors and devastates port cities under tsunamis of water.” It did not bother the Accuser that his comrade, the god Enki, had claimed the same powers to make the earth tremble and quake, or that Enlil claimed to be the source of hurricane storms and lightning and thunder. Consistency was not the Accuser’s strong suit, emotional appeal was. ~ Brian Godawa,

1044:Gray The loud, apt epithet, applying sure; The dim-drawn image, artfully obscure; The perfect stanza, framed of words as choice And round as pearls, yet liquid to the voice; A pith of phrase, and musical array Of numbers;—these are the prime charms of Gray. The naked majesty and open wonder Of true sublimity heaped in lines of thunder; That artless grace wherewith the olden time Dandled the happy infancy of Rhyme; That negligent melody which shames the trick Of wire-drawn verse, and verse-drawn rhetoric: These in our rich old Bards abound; but these To Gray were literary heresies. ~ Charles Harpur,

1045:Oh it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets three-wise silverflamed, and there by the door the timps rolling through my guts and out again crunched like candy thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then, a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now, came the violin solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like a cage of silk round my bed. Then flute and oboe bored, like worms of like platinum, into the thick thick toffee gold and silver. I was in such bliss, my brothers. ~ Anthony Burgess,

1046:The Widening Sky I am so small walking on the beach at night under the widening sky. The wet sand quickens beneath my feet and the waves thunder against the shore. I am moving away from the boardwalk with its colorful streamers of people and the hotels with their blinking lights. The wind sighs for hundreds of miles. I am disappearing so far into the dark I have vanished from sight. I am a tiny seashell that has secretly drifted ashore and carries the sound of the ocean surging through its body. I am so small now no one can see me. How can I be filled with such a vast love? ~ Edward Hirsch,

1047:At that instant a dazzling claw of lightning streaked down the length of the sky. The hedge and the distant trees seemed to leap forward in the brilliance of the flash. Immediately upon it came the thunder: a high, tearing noise, as though some huge thing were being ripped to pieces close above, which deepened and turned to enormous blows of dissolution. Then the rain fell like a waterfall. In a few seconds the ground was covered with water and over it, to a height of inches, rose a haze formed of a myriad minute splashes. Stupefied with the shock, unable even to move, the sodden rabbits crouched inert, almost pinned to the earth by the rain. ~ Richard Adams,

1048:Imagine walking under a glowing violet sky, where great flashing clouds sweep the earth with shadow and rain strides beneath them. Imagine walking on the slopes of a mountain like polished metal, with a clean red flame exploding above you and thunder laughing in the ground. Imagine a cool wild stream, and low trees with dark coppery flowers, and a waterfall, methane-fall...whatever you like, leaping off a cliff, and the strong live wind shakes its mane full of rainbows! Imagine a whole forest, dark and breathing, and here and there you glimpse a pale-red wavering will-o'-the-wisp, which is the life radiation of some fleet shy animal, and...and- ~ Poul Anderson,

1049:The Death Of Sisera When Deborah the prophetess ruled in God’s land, And Sisera died under Jael’s fierce hand, His mother looked forth at the close of the day, When the roar of the war died in silence away: And she cried, “Still his charriot tarries afar! Are its wheels clogged about with the slaughter of war?” And her damsels made answer, “Awhile yet they stay To trample the fallen, dividing the prey.” Day shut, and the stars that had doomed him to death Rushed out, while to listen she pent in her breath; But the sound of his chariot over the plain Like a far roll of thunder, came never again ~ Charles Harpur,

1050:I really like drumming. While I'm doing it, I am aware of the sixty-five moments that Jiko says are in the snap of a finger. I'm serious. When you're beating a drum, you can hear when the BOOM comes the teeniest bit too late or the teeniest bit too early, because your whole attention is focused on the razor edge between silence and noise. Finally I achieved my goal and resolved my childhood obsession with NOW, when silence becomes a sound so enormous and alive it feels like you're breathing in the clouds and the sky, and your heart is the rain and the thunder. Jiko says that is an example of the time being. Sound and no-sound. Thunder and silence. ~ Ruth Ozeki,

1051:Fate, with its mysterious and inexorable patience, was slowly bringing together these two beings charged, like thunder-clouds, with electricity, with the latent forces of passion, and destined to meet and mingle in a look as clouds do in a lightning-flash. So much has been made in love-stories of the power of a glance that we have ended by undervaluing it. We scarcely dare say in these days that two persons fell in love because their eyes met. Yet that is how one falls in love and in no other way. What remains is simply what remains, and it comes later. Nothing is more real than the shock two beings sustain when that spark flies between them. ~ Victor Hugo,

1052:Temagami Far in the grim Northwest beyond the lines That turn the rivers eastward to the sea, Set with a thousand islands, crowned with pines, Lies the deep water, wild Temagami: Wild for the hunter's roving, and the use Of trappers in its dark and trackless vales, Wild with the trampling of the giant moose, And the weird magic of old Indian tales. All day with steady paddles toward the west Our heavy-laden long canoe we pressed: All day we saw the thunder-travelled sky Purpled with storm in many a trailing tress, And saw at eve the broken sunset die In crimson on the silent wilderness. ~ Archibald Lampman,

1053:If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet deprecate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the roar of its many waters. ...Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will. ...Find out just what people will submit to, and you have found the exact amount of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them; and these will continue until they are resisted with either words or blows, or with both. The limits of tyrants are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress. ~ Frederick Douglass,

1054:It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,        The holy time is quiet as a Nun        Breathless with adoration; the broad sun        Is sinking down in its tranquility;        The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea:        Listen! the mighty Being is awake,        And doth with his eternal motion make        A sound like thunder—everlastingly.        Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,        If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,        Thy nature is not therefore less divine:        Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;        And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,        God being with thee when we know it not. ~ Miriam Toews,

1055:Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring And carried aloft on the winds of the breeze; For above and around me the wild wind is roaring, Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas. The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing, The bare trees are tossing their branches on high; The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing, The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky. I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray; I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing, And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day! ~ Anne Bront,

1056:China 1899 She lies, a grave disdain all her defence, Too imperturbable for scorn. She hears Only the murmur of the flowing years That thunder slowly on her shores immense And ebb away in moaning impotence. Giants enduring, she and Time are peers-Her dream-hazed eyes knowing no hopes, no tears, Her glance a langour-lidded insolence. And though the rabble of the restless West In her deserted courts set their rash sway, She heeds them not; as when the sun, withdrawn From his untarnished sky, knows it distressed By storm of weakling stars, that he at dawn Will wither with one ruthless glance away. ~ Arthur Henry Adams,

1057:The Road And The End I shall foot it Down the roadway in the dusk, Where shapes of hunger wander And the fugitives of pain go by. I shall foot it In the silence of the morning, See the night slur into dawn, Hear the slow great winds arise Where tall trees flank the way And shoulder toward the sky. The broken boulders by the road Shall not commemorate my ruin. Regret shall be the gravel under foot. I shall watch for Slim birds swift of wing That go where wind and ranks of thunder Drive the wild processionals of rain. The dust of the traveled road Shall touch my hands and face. ~ Carl Sandburg,

1058:Gird up thy loins now like a man; I will demand of thee, and declare thou unto me. Wilt thou also disannul my judgment? Wilt thou condemn me, that thou mayst be righteous? Hast thou an arm like God? or canst thou thunder with a voice like him? Deck thyself now with majesty and excellency; and array thyself with glory and beauty. Cast abroad the rage of thy wrath: and behold every one that is proud and abase him. Look on every one that is proud, and bring him low; and tread down the wicked in their place. Hide them in the dust together; and bind their faces in secret. Then I will also confess unto thee that thine own hand can save thee. ~ Anonymous, The Bible, Job, 40:7-14,

1059:Natural Theology 'Once CAGN was like a father, kind and good, But He was spoiled by fighting many things; He wars upon the lions in the wood, And breaks the Thunder-bird's tremendous wings; But still we cry to Him,--'We are thy brood O Cagn, be merciful!' and us He brings To herds of elands, and great store of food, And in the desert opens water-springs.' So Qing, King Nqsha's Bushman hunter, spoke, Beside the camp-fire, by the fountain fair, When all were weary, and soft clouds of smoke Were fading, fragrant, in the twilit air: And suddenly in each man's heart there woke A pang, a sacred memory of prayer. ~ Andrew Lang,

1060:A crack of thunder resounded overhead. The funnel cloud swirled above the shrine. Below, in the huge courtyard of Etemenanki, the entire army of ten thousand Stone Ones assembled and stood to attention at the command of Terah. Nimrod, with bandaged throat, stood beside Terah. The king oversaw the complete entourage of every magician, every sorcerer, every astrologer and omen diviner in Babylon surround the ziggurat with ritual incantations. The temple towered over them, standing three hundred feet high. It was a small mountain, a cosmic mountain. Soon it would be the new home of the gods, and an occultic portal through which they might storm heaven. It was time. ~ Brian Godawa,

1061:Already blushes in thy cheek The bosom-thought which thou must speak; The bird, how far it haply roam By cloud or isle, is flying home; The maiden fears, and fearing runs Into the charmed snare she shuns; And every man, in love or pride, Of his fate is never wide. Will a woman's fan the ocean smooth? Or prayers the stony Parcae sooth, Or coax the thunder from its mark? Or tapers light the chaos dark? In spite of Virtue and the Muse, Nemesis will have her dues, And all our struggles and our toils Tighter wind the giant coils. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nemesis ,

1062:An artist is identical with an anarchist,' he cried. 'You might transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway.' 'So it is,' said Mr. Syme. 'Nonsense!' said Gregory, who was very rational when any one else attempted paradox. ~ G K Chesterton,

1063:The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for after. One ~ Natalie Babbitt,

1064:The first week of August hangs at the very top of the summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for after. ~ Natalie Babbitt,

1065:Let me give you a word of the philosophy of reforms. The whole history of the progress of human liberty shows that all concessions yet made to her august claims have been born of struggle. . . . If there is no struggle there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom and yet deprecate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. The struggle may be a moral one; or it may be a physical one; or it may be both moral and physical, but it must be a struggle. Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will. . . . ~ Howard Zinn,

1066:The drum with no drumhead beats; clouds thunder without the monsoon; rain falls without clouds. Can anyone guess this riddle? I have met Ram the beautiful, and I too have become beautiful. The philosopher's stone turns lead into gold; costly rubies I string with my words and thoughts. I discovered real love; doubts, fears have left me. I found comfort in what my guru taught me. A pitcher will fill when plunged in water, so Ram is the One in all. The guru's heart and the disciple's heart are one. Thus has the slave Namdeva perceived Truth. [2184.jpg] -- from Songs of the Saints from the Adi Granth, Translated by Nirmal Dass ~ Namdev, The drum with no drumhead beats ,

1067:The rain rapped the roof like mallets. The thunder was a tympani drum. Downstairs the raiders set fire to the refectory and the flames crackled like a hundred castanets. Those few who had not fled the church were screaming, high, pleading shrieks, met by lower barking orders of those committing the atrocities. The low and high voices, the crackling fire, whipping wind, drumming rain and crashing thunder created an angry symphony, swirling to a crescendo, and just as the invaders threw open the tomb of Saint Pascual, ready to desecrate his bones, the bells above the basilica began to chime, causing all to look up. At that precise moment, Frankie Presto was born. ~ Mitch Albom,

1068:This vampire which is amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men, he is of cunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages, he have still the aids of necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply, the divination by the dead, and all the dead that he can come nigh to are for him at command; he is brute, and more than brute; he is devil in callous, and the heart of him is not; he can, within his range, direct the elements, the storm, the fog, the thunder; he can command all the meaner things, the rat, and the owl, and the bat, the moth, and the fox, and the wolf, he can grow and become small; and he can at times vanish and come unknown. ~ Bram Stoker,

1069:To the East, as I stood there in the quietness of the Sleeping-Time on the One Thousandth Plateau, I heard a far, dreadful sound, down in the lightless East; and, presently, again—a strange, dreadful laughter, deep as a low thunder among the mountains. And because this sound came odd whiles from the Unknown Lands beyond the Valley of The Hounds, we had named that far and never-seen Place "The Country Whence Comes The Great Laughter." And though I had heard the sound, many and oft a time, yet did I never hear it without a most strange thrilling of my heart, and a sense of my littleness, and of the utter terror which had beset the last millions of the world. ~ William Hope Hodgson,

1070:To Archimedes once a scholar came, "Teach me," he said, "the art that won thy fame; The godlike art which gives such boons to toil, And showers such fruit upon thy native soil; The godlike art that girt the town when all Rome's vengeance burst in thunder on the wall!" "Thou call'st art godlikeit is so, in truth, And was," replied the master to the youth, "Ere yet its secrets were applied to use Ere yet it served beleaguered Syracuse: Ask'st thou from art, but what the art is worth? The fruit?for fruit go cultivate the earth. He who the goddess would aspire unto, Must not the goddess as the woman woo!" ~ Friedrich Schiller, Archimedes ,

1071:I am trying now to re-create in my mind the picture of the man as I saw him in 1939- he, the revered author of Sinister Barriers, I the novice. I think I can rely on my near-photographic memory for the purpose. (I call it "near-photographic" because I can only remember things that happen to be lying around near photographs.) Let's see, as I recall, he is six-feet seven-inches tall (when he is sitting down, that is) with a long and majestic English face. Then, too, I distinctly remember, there was a small flashing golden aura about his head, the occasional play of hissing flashes when he moved it suddenly, and the distant rumble of thunder when he spoke. ~ Isaac Asimov,

1072:Farewel happy Fields Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrours, hail Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings A mind not to be chang'd by Place or Time. The mind is its own place, and in it self Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n. What matter where, if I be still the same, And what I should be, all but less then he Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least We shall be free; th' Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: Here we may reign secure, and in my choyce To reign is worth ambition though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n. ~ John Milton,

1073:I said my goodbyes to Madge at the front door and watched her for a few moments as she made her way down the driveway before closing it again. At first I rested my forehead against the woodwork, wondering what I might do next, but as I turned, a hand grabbed me by the neck and threw me across the floor. I hit the wall of the hallway with a scream and felt a body, invisible, rushing towards me. Before it could reach me, however, another presence swept in from my left side and there was a sound like thunder as they collided, one roaring at the other, before both presences disappeared entirely, leaving only one thing, one familiar thing, in their wake. The scent of cinnamon. ~ John Boyne,

1074:The Soul's Expression WITH stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right That music of my nature, day and night With dream and thought and feeling interwound And inly answering all the senses round With octaves of a mystic depth and height Which step out grandly to the infinite From the dark edges of the sensual ground. This song of soul I struggle to outbear Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole, And utter all myself into the air: But if I did it,--as the thunder-roll Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there, Before that dread apocalypse of soul. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

1075:You will wear the féth fiada until this is done, Amadan.” “Bloody hell,” Adam muttered savagely. “I hate being invisible.” “And Keltar,” Aoibheal said in a voice like sudden thunder, with a glance up at the balustrade. “Henceforth I would advise against tampering with my curses. Perform the Lughnassadh ritual now or face my wrath.” “Aye, Queen Aoibheal,” Dageus and Drustan replied together, stepping our from behind stone columns bracketing the stairs. Adam smiled faintly. He should have known no Highlander would flee, only retreat to a higher vantage – take to the hills, in a manner of speaking – waiting in silent readiness should battle be necessary. ~ Karen Marie Moning,

1076:Billy nods and turns to the window. He knows he will never see Faison again, but how can he know? How does anyone ever know anything—the past is a fog that breathes out ghost after ghost, the present a freeway thunder run at 90 mph, which makes the future the ultimate black hole of futile speculation. And yet he knows, at least he thinks he knows, he feels it seeded in the purest certainty of his grief as he finds his seat belt and snaps it shut, that snick like the final lock of a vast and complex system. He’s in. Bound for the war. Good-bye, good-bye, good night, I love you all. He sits back, closes his eyes, and tries to think about nothing as the limo takes them away. ~ Ben Fountain,

1077:Sonnet Lxxxv THe world that cannot deeme of worthy things, when I doe praise her, say I doe but flatter: so does the Cuckow, when the Mauis sings, begin his witlesse note apace to clatter. But they that skill not of so heauenly matter, all that they know not, enuy or admyre, rather then enuy let them wonder at her, but not to deeme of her desert aspyre. Deepe in the closet of my parts entyre, her worth is written with a golden quill: that me with heauenly fury doth inspire, and my glad mouth with her sweet prayses fill. Which when as fame in her shrill trump shal thunder let the world chose to enuy or to wonder. ~ Edmund Spenser,

1078:After the cold gust of wind there was an absolute stillness of the air. The thunder-charged mass hung unbroken beyond the low, ink-black headland, darkening the twilight. By contrast, the sky at the zenith displayed pellucid clearness, the sheen of a delicate glass bubble which the merest movement of air might shatter. A little to the left, between the black masses of the headland and of the forest, the volcano, a feather of smoke by day and a cigar-glow at night, took its first fiery expanding breath of the evening. Above it a reddish star came out like an expelled spark from the fiery bosom of the earth, enchanted into permanency by the mysterious spell of frozen spaces. ~ Joseph Conrad,

1079:I HAVE heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile Tara uprooted, and new commonness Upon the throne and crying about the streets And hanging its paper flowers from post to post, Because it is alone of all things happy. I am contented, for I know that Quiet Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart Among pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer, Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs A cloudy quiver over Pairc-na-lee. ~ William Butler Yeats, In The Seven Woods ,

1080:My Soul Is Awakened My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring, And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze; For, above, and around me, the wild wind is roaring Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas. The The The The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing, bare trees are tossing their branches on high; dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing, white clouds are scudding across the blue sky. I wish I could see how The foam of its billows I wish I could see how And hear the wild roar the ocean is lashing to whirlwinds of spray, its proud waves are dashing of their thunder today! ~ Anne Brontë,

1081:On Lake Temiscamingue A single dreary elm, that stands between The sombre forest and the wan-lit lake, Halves with its slim gray stem and pendent green The shadowed point. Beyond it without break Bold brows of pine-topped granite bend away, Far to the southward, fading off in grand Soft folds of looming purple. Cool and gray, The point runs out, a blade of thinnest sand. Two rivers meet beyond it: wild and clear, Their deepening thunder breaks upon the earThe one descending from its forest home By many an eddied pool and murmuring fallThe other cloven through the mountain wall, A race of tumbled rocks, a road of foam. ~ Archibald Lampman,

1082:And then one morning the soldiers grew suddenly still as the heavy latches were lifted and turned. Just before the doors slid apart, a man from Pisa took the opportunity to say, "The air is thin. We're in the mountains." Alessandro straightened his back and raised his head. The mountains, unpredictable in their power, were the heart of his recollection, and he knew that the Pisano was right. He had known it all along from the way the train took the many grades, from the metallic thunder of bridges over which they had run in the middle of the night, and from the white sound of streams falling and flowing in velocities that could have been imparted only by awesome mountainsides. ~ Mark Helprin,

1083:Sea Grief Along the serried coast the Southerly raves, Grey birds scream landward through the distance hoar, And, swinging from the dim confounded shore, The everlasting boom of broken waves Like muffled thunder rolls about the graves Of all the wonder-lands and lives of yore, Whose bones asunder bleach for evermore, In sobbing chasms and under choking caves: O breaking heart—whose only rest is rage, White tossing arms, and lips that kiss and part In lonely dreams of love's wild ecstasy, Not the mean earth thy suffering can assuage Nor highest heaven fulfil thy hungry heart, O fair full-bosomed passionate weeping sea. ~ Dowell O'Reilly,

1084:How do you know if you are a writer? For once, I am going to answer a question as directly as I am able. My answer goes like this. You know that you are a writer if you are imaginative. You know that you are a writer if you are curious. You know that you are a writer if you are interested in the things and people of the world. You know that you are a writer if you hold a minie ball in your hand and wonder about its story. You know that you are a writer if you like the sound of rain on the roof. And if you want to tell someone else about your heart and how waiting for the thunder sometimes makes you feel, if you work to find the words to do that, then you are a writer. " -Maureen ~ Kate DiCamillo,

1085:I find a grin spreading across my face. I don't know what I'm doing, how I'm doing it, or what will happen when it's done, but at the very bottom of this rising siege-ladder, I at least know I'm going to see Julie again. I know I'm not going to say goodbye. And if these staggering refugees want to help, if they think they see something bigger here than a boy chasing a girl, then they can help, and we'll see what happens when we say Yes while this rigor mortis world screams No. We start lumbering north on the southbound freeway, and the thunder drifts away towards the mountains as if it's scared of us. Here we are on the road. We must be going somewhere. ~ Isaac Marion,

1086:Voices Of Earth We have not heard the music of the spheres, The song of star to star, but there are sounds More deep than human joy and human tears, That Nature uses in her common rounds; The fall of streams, the cry of winds that strain The oak, the roaring of the sea's surge, might Of thunder breaking afar off, or rain That falls by minutes in the summer night. These are the voices of earth's secret soul, Uttering the mystery from which she came. To him who hears them grief beyond control, Or joy inscrutable without a name, Wakes in his heart thoughts bedded there, impearled, Before the birth and making of the world. ~ Archibald Lampman,

1087:Another lightning flash, another thunder growl. Old Mr. Jay hunched his thin shoulders under his jeans coat, and allowed he'd pay for some crackers and cheese if the storekeeper'd fetch them out to us. "I ain't even now wanting to talk against Forney Meechum," said the farmer. "But they tell he'd put his eye on Lute for himself, and he'd quarreled with his own son Derwood about who'd have her. But next court day at the county seat, was a fight betwixt Jeremiah Donovant and Derwood Meechum, and Jeremiah put a knife in Derwood and killed him dead." Mr. Jay leaned forward. The lantern light showed the gray stubble on his gentle old face. "Who drew the first knife?" he asked. ~ Manly Wade Wellman,

1088:tints were charged with a leaden tinge from the solid cloud-bank overhead. The river was leaden; all distances the same; and even the far-reaching ranks of combing white-caps were dully shaded by the dark, rich atmosphere through which their swarming legions marched. The thunder-peals were constant and deafening; explosion followed explosion with but inconsequential intervals between, and the reports grew steadily sharper and higher-keyed, and more trying to the ear; the lightning was as diligent as the thunder, and produced effects which enchanted the eye and sent electric ecstasies of mixed delight and apprehension shivering along every nerve in the body in unintermittent procession. ~ Mark Twain,

1089:Last night I learned how to be a lover of God, To live in this world and call nothing my own. I looked inward And the beauty of my own emptiness filled me till dawn. It enveloped me like a mine of rubies. Its hue clothed me in red silk. Within the cavern of my soul I heard the voice of a lover crying, “Drink now! Drink now!”— I took a sip and saw the vast ocean— Wave upon wave caressed my soul. The lovers of God dance around And the circle of their steps becomes a ring of fire round my neck. Heaven calls me with its rain and thunder— a hundred thousand cries yet I cannot hear..... All I hear is the call of my Beloved. ~ Rumi,

1090:Rise free from care before the dawn, and seek adventures. Let the noon find thee by other lakes, and the night overtake thee everywhere at home. There are no larger fields than these, no worthier games than may here be played. Grow wild according to thy nature, like these sedges and brakes, which will never become English bay. Let the thunder rumble; what if it threaten ruin to farmers' crops? That is not its errand to thee. Take shelter under the cloud, while they flee to carts and sheds. Let not to get a living be thy trade, but thy sport. Enjoy the land, but own it not. Through want of enterprise and faith men are where they are, buying and selling, and spending their lives like serfs. ~ Anonymous,

1091:In a little while they were kissing. In a little while longer, they made their slow sweet love. The iron bed sounded like a pine forest in an ice storm, like a switch track in a Memphis trainyard, like the sweet electrical thunder of habitual love and the tragical history of the constant heart. Auntee finished first, and then Uncle soon after, and their lips were touching lightly as they did. The rain was still falling and the scritch owl was still asleep and the dragonflies were hidden like jewels somewhere in deep brown wet grasses, nobody knew where. Uncle rolled away from his wife and held onto her hand, never let it go, old friend, old partner, passionate wife. ~ Lewis Nordan,

1092:Lines Composed In A Wood On A Windy Day My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze; For above and around me the wild wind is roaring, Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas. The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing, The bare trees are tossing their branches on high; The dead leaves, beneath them, are merrily dancing, The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky. I wish I could see how The foam of its billows I wish I could see how And hear the wild roar the ocean is lashing to whirlwinds of spray; its proud waves are dashing, of their thunder today! Acton ~ Anne Brontë,

1093:How often we neglect, ignore, overlook, or simply miss the presence of our loving God. We often look for Him in the great rolling thunder when, more often than not, He comes in gentle whispers . . . in the soft cooing of a baby, through the touch of a loved one's hand, in the warm embrace of a trusted friend, in the pitter-patter of a sudden summer shower on a tin roof, or with the cool touch of an evening breeze on an Autumn night. Through hundreds of ways, God whispers, "I love you and I am always with you." Don't miss Him or His presence as you go through this day. Open your eyes of faith and look for Him in the most simple of ways. The experience can be extraordinary and life-changing! ~ Ron Lambros,

1094:Land sakes, I can’t make a speech,” she said. “Tell you what: I’ll recite a poem I composed while in jail.” And she began. “Although in jail in Centerboro, I do not fret or stew or worro. And confidently I confront The judge, because I’m innosunt. Tho I’m a cow, I am no coward I have not flinched when thunder rowered. When lightning flashed I’ve merely giggled Like one whose funnybone is tiggled. And I shall never give up hoping That soon the jail front door will oping And I’ll once more enjoy my freedom On Bean’s green fields. When last I seed ’em They were a fair and lovely vision And so for my return I’m wishun. I hope that Bismuth will get his’n And spend a good long time in prison. ~ Walter R Brooks,

1095:The Awakening The Soul, of late a lovely sleeping child, Spreads sudden wings and stands in radiant guise, Eyed like the morn and bent upon the skies; Her the blue gulf dismays not, nor the wild Horizons with the wrecks of thunder piled; Storm has she known, and how its murmur dies Starlike through stainless heavens she would rise And be no more with cloudy dreams beguiled. Was sleep not sweet?--sweet till on sleeping ears Earth's voices broke in discord. Now she hears Far, far away diviner music move; Nor shall her wing be sated of its flight, Nor shall her eyes be weary of the night, While round her sweep the singing stars of Love. ~ Enid Derham,

1096:The Watch On Deck Becalmed upon the equatorial seas, A ship of gold lay on a sea of fire; Each sail and rope and spar, as in desire, Mutely besought the kisses of a breeze; Low laughter told the mariners at ease; Sweet sea-songs hymned the red sun's fun'ral pyre: Yet One, with eyes that never seemed to tire, Watched for the storm, nursed on the thunder's knees. Thou watcher of the spirit's inner keep, Scanning Death's lone, illimitable deep, Spread outward to the far immortal shore! While the vault sleeps, from the upheaving deck, Thou see'st the adamantine reefs that wreck, And Life's low shoals, where lusting billows roar. ~ David MacDonald Ross,

1097:I went down on one knee in front of her. It was melodramatic, I know, but she was a teenager, and I thought she would probably buy it. “Samantha,” I said. “All you have to do is just let me try. Do nothing, and I won’t try to get you out of here against your will. You have my solemn word of honor.” There was no crash of thunder, not even the sound of distant laughter, and in spite of my recent epidemic of unpleasant emotions, I felt no shame. And I believe I did it very convincingly. In fact, I think it was the performance of a lifetime—I didn’t mean a word of it, of course, but under the circumstances I would gladly have promised her a ride on my flying saucer if it would get me out of here. And ~ Jeff Lindsay,

1098:Sonnet Lii. FAULTERING and sad the unhappy pilgrim roves, Who, on the eve of bleak December's night, Divided far from all he fondly loves, Journeys alone, along the giddy height Of these steep cliffs, and as the sun's last ray Fades in the West, sees, from the rocky verge, Dark tempests scowling o'er the shortened day, And hears, with ear appall'd, the impetuous surge Beneath him thunder!--So, with heart oppress'd, Alone, reluctant, desolate, and slow, By Friendship's cheering radiance now unblest, Along life's rudest path I seem to go; Nor see where yet the anxious heart may rest, That, trembling at the past--recoils from future woe. ~ Charlotte Smith,

1099:So the people amused themselves one day by nailing him to a cross and planting the cross in the ground. There couldn’t possibly be any repercussions, the lynchers thought. The reader would have to think that, too, since the new Gospel hammered home again and again what a nobody Jesus was. And then, just before the nobody died, the heavens opened up, and there was thunder and lightning. The voice of God came crashing down. He told the people that he was adopting the bum as his son, giving him the full powers and privileges of The Son of the Creator of the Universe throughout all eternity. God said this: From this moment on, He will punish horribly anybody who torments a bum who has no connections! ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

1100:There will be thunder then. Remember me. Say "She asked for storms." The entire world will turn the colour of crimson stone, and your heart, as then, will turn to fire. That day, in Moscow, a true prophecy, when for the last time I say goodbye, soaring to the heavens that I longed to see, leaving mI haven't locked the door, Nor lit the candles, You don't know, don't care, That tired I haven't the strength To decide to go to bed. Seeing the fields fade in The sunset murk of pine-needles, And to know all is lost, That life is a cursed hell: I've got drunk On your voice in the doorway. I was sure you'd come back. ~ Anna Akhmatova,

1101:Mount Kikineis Look, the abyss, the downward sky, the sea! Bird-mountain, shot with thunder, furls below feathers and wings, in curve beyond rainbow, snow-sails and mast, immobile, vast, free; and cloudlike over spacious limbo, covers wide azure - oh, island-hemisphere in flight, darkens a half-world with its own sad night. Look, on its forehead ribbon flames and hovers! Lightning! But stop here. At our feet, abysses, ravines, thresholds we must at gallop span. I leap; stand ready with whip and spur; stare past rock escarpment where I vanish. This is your sign: If white panache gleams, I am there; if not, there is no path beyond for man. ~ Adam Mickiewicz,

1102:The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found necessary to clear the entire pier from the mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would have increased manifold. To add to the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting inland. White, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. ~ Bram Stoker,

1103: The Divine Hearing All sounds, all voices have become Thy voice, Music and thunder and the cry of birds, Life's babble of her sorrows and her joys, Cadence of human speech and murmured words, The laughter of the sea's enormous mirth, The winged plane purring through the conquered air, The auto's trumpet-song of speed to earth, The machine's reluctant drone, the siren's blare Blowing upon the windy horn of Space A call of distance and of mystery, Memories of sun-bright lands and ocean ways, - All now are wonder-tones and themes of Thee. A secret harmony steals through the blind heart And all grows beautiful because Thou art. ~ Sri Aurobindo, - Divine Hearing ,

1104:more militant. Frederick Douglass spoke in 1857: Let me give you a word of the philosophy of reforms. The whole history of the progress of human liberty shows that all concessions yet made to her august claims have been born of struggle…. If there is no struggle there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom and yet deprecate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. The struggle may be a moral one; or it may be a physical one; or it may be both moral and physical, but it must be a struggle. Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will…. ~ Howard Zinn,

1105:Sonnet Lxxix: The Monochord Is it this sky's vast vault or ocean's sound That is Life's self and draws my life from me, And by instinct ineffable decree Holds my breath quailing on the bitter bound? Nay, is it Life or Death, thus thunder-crown'd, That 'mid the tide of all emergency Now notes my separate wave, and to what sea Its difficult eddies labour in the ground? Oh! what is this that knows the road I came, The flame turned cloud, the cloud returned to flame, The lifted shifted steeps and all the way?— That draws round me at last this wind-warm space, And in regenerate rapture turns my face Upon the devious coverts of dismay? ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

1106:She had begun to love the rocks and the ocean, the thunder of the wave, and the sterility of the sand,–awful objects, the incessant recurrence of whose very sound seems intended to remind us of grief and of eternity. Their restless monotony of repetition, corresponds with the beatings of a heart which asks its destiny from the phenomena of nature, and feels the answer is ‘Misery.’ 'Those who love may seek the luxuries of the garden, and inhale added intoxication from its perfumes, which seem the offerings of nature on that altar which is already erected and burning in the heart of the worshipper;–but let those who have loved seek the shores of the ocean, and they shall have their answer too. ~ Charles Robert Maturin,

1107:A Thunderstorm A moment the wild swallows like a flight Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high, Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky. The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight, The hurrying centres of the storm unite And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe, Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge, Tower darkening on. And now from heaven's height, With the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed, And pelted waters, on the vanished plain Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash That splits abroad the pealing thunder-crash, Over bleared fields and gardens disarrayed, Column on column comes the drenching rain. ~ Archibald Lampman,

1108:Fragment I I round the threshold wandering here, Vainly the tempest and the rain invoke, That they may keep my lady prisoner. And yet the wind was howling in the woods, The roving thunder bellowing in the clouds, Before the dawn had risen in the sky. O ye dear clouds! O heaven! O earth! O trees! My lady goes! Have mercy, if on earth Unhappy lovers ever mercy find! Awake, ye whirlwinds! storm-charged clouds, awake, O'erwhelm me with your floods, until the sun To other lands brings back the light of day! Heaven opens; the wind falls; the grass, the leaves Are motionless, around; the dazzling sun In my tear-laden eyes remorseless shines. ~ Count Giacomo Leopardi,

1109:the few stragglers still stumbling around in the aftermath of the blinding. The stragglers cried for mercy. Their eyes had been burned out of their sockets. They flailed for anything to grab onto for security. Mikael and the Destroyer stood in the center of the square. Mikael looked up and prayed, “El Shaddai, God Almighty, the Most High God, El Elyon, possessor of the heavens and earth, bring down your wrath!” With that prayer, the Destroyer lifted his massive sword and plunged it into the ground all the way up to the hilt. The earth trembled and shook. The Meat Puppet lost its footing and fell to the ground. Up above, a large storm cloud gathered. Thunder cracked the sky. The Sodomites circled the angels. ~ Brian Godawa,

1110:The Staircase Of Notre Dame, Paris As one who, groping in a narrow stair, Hath a strong sound of bells upon his ears, Which, being at a distance off, appears Quite close to him because of the pent air: So with this France. She stumbles file and square Darkling and without space for breath: each one Who hears the thunder says: “It shall anon Be in among her ranks to scatter her.” This may be; and it may be that the storm Is spent in rain upon the unscathed seas, Or wasteth other countries ere it die: Till she,—having climbed always through the swarm Of darkness and of hurtling sound,—from these Shall step forth on the light in a still sky. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

1111:The part of his mind that considered odds and consequences had shut down entirely, snuffed by the sheer adrenal rush of holding her, falling together into the Impala's sunken upholstery. He took her face in his hands as he kissed her, wanting to just get it right, to stamp the moment, to blunt the thunder of fear pounding in his skull as the rest of him succumbed to a sensation beyond pleasure, a kind of twisted relief that he'd macheted all his moorings, that whatever happened now would happen because he'd said 'Fuck It!' to everything that had rendered him, for more years than he could count, a soul-dead, heart-numbed misfit staggering from pill to pill just to get through the dull risk of his own existence. ~ Jerry Stahl,

1112:At five-thirty the rain began to fall in great, heavy drops which bounced off the pavement before they spread out into black spots. At the same time thunder rumbled from the direction of Charenton and an eddy of wind lifted the dust, carried away the hats of passers-by who took to their heels and who, after a few confused moments, were all in the shelter of doorways or under the awnings of cafe terraces. Street pedlars of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine scurried about with an apron or a sack over their heads, pushing their carts as they tried to run. Rivulets already began to flow along the two sides of the street, the gutters sang, and on every floor you could see people hurriedly closing their windows. ~ Georges Simenon,

1113:I can’t hurt to apply,” he says with a shrug. “Right? Besides, they might change their minds once you get accepted.” “If I get accepted.” “I’m willing to bet you will.” “Wow, you’ve got a lot of confidence in someone you don’t even like.” A crash of thunder delays his reply. When it comes, it’s unexpectedly quiet. “What makes you think I don’t like you?” Feeling suddenly vulnerable, I drag a pillow into my lap. “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve said so? Like, a million times.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never said I don’t like you.” “I’m pretty sure you have. Remember that fight we had a couple of weeks ago? At Mama’s party?” “You said you hated me,” he argues. ~ Kristi Cook,

1114:Natural,my ass! The worst poison known to man comes from a tree frog in South America. You cannot imagine how small an amount would be necessary to kill you.and it's natural.Calling something NATURAL is a MEANINGLESS MARKETING PLOY." "All right,calm down! Maybe I like alternative medicine because it's been in use for more than six thousand years.After all that time,they have to know what they're doing." "You mean the wacky idea that somehow in the distant past people had more scientific wisdom than they do today?That's both crazy and counterintuitive.Six thousand years ago people thought thunder was a bunch of gods moving around furniture." -Conversation btw Dr.Jack Stapleton and Vinnie ~ Robin Cook,

1115:From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then — in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life — was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

1116:By the time I get to the dual carriageway, the rain is coming down hard. Stuck behind a huge lorry, my wipers are no match for the spray thrown up by its wheels. As I move out to pass it, lightning streaks across the sky and, falling back into a childhood habit, I begin a slow count in my head. The answering rumble of thunder comes when I get to four. Maybe I should have gone back to Connie’s with the others, after all. I could have waited out the storm there, while John amused us with his jokes and stories. I feel a sudden stab of guilt at the look in his eyes when I’d said I wouldn’t be joining them. It had been clumsy of me to mention Matthew. What I should have said was that I was tired, like Mary, our Head, had. The ~ B A Paris,

1117:Summer Beach … Thunder that is still too far away for us to hear presses down on Ben’s ears and he wakes us and leans hot and chesty first against M., then against me, and listens to our slow, warm words that mean we love him. But when the storm has passed, he is brave again and wants to go out. We open the door and he glides away without a backward glance. It is early, in the blue and grainy air we can just see him running along the edge of the water, into the first pink suggestion of sunrise. And we are caught by the old affinity, a joyfulness - his great and seemly pleasure in the physical world. Because of the dog’s joyfulness, our own is increased. It is no small gift… ~ Mary Oliver,

1118:To George Sand: A Desire THOU large-brained woman and large-hearted man, Self-called George Sand ! whose soul, amid the lions Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance And answers roar for roar, as spirits can: I would some mild miraculous thunder ran Above the applauded circus, in appliance Of thine own nobler nature's strength and science, Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan, From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place With holier light ! that thou to woman's claim And man's, mightst join beside the angel's grace Of a pure genius sanctified from blame Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

1119:Arrogance and fanatical belief had become a racial trait. The galaxy belonged to them, having been fashioned for them by their God, so everything belonged to them, and they could do with it what they wanted, and what they wanted usually involved subjugation, destruction, and death. Religion, a vicious and hearty meme at best, usually collapsed as civilizations became spacefaring, for most such belief systems, initiated when the world was still flat and thunder was the bellowing of gods, usually could not survive the realities of the universe and the steady abrasion of science. ~ Neal Asher, Shell Game (2009) in Gardner Dozois & Jonathan Strahan (eds.) The New Space Opera 2 (mass market paperback edition, ISBN 978-0-06-156236-5), p. 248,

1120:did you think i was a city big enough for a weekend getaway i am the town surrounding it the one you've never heard of but always pass through there are no neon lights here no skyscapers or statues but there is thunder for i make bridges tremble i am not street meat i am homemade jam thick enough to cut the sweetest thing you lips will touch i am not police sirens i am the crackle of a fireplace i'd burn you and you still couldn't take your eyes off of me cause i'd look so beautiful doing it you'd blush i am not a hotel room i am home i am not the whiskey you want i am the water you need don't come here with expectations and try to make a vacation out of me ~ Rupi Kaur,

1121:Sonnets Of The Empire: Dawn At Liverpool The Sunlight laughs along the serried stone About whose feet the wastrel tide runs free; Light lie the shipmasts, fairy-like to see, Athwart the royal city’s splendour thrown; On runs the noble river, wide and lone, Like some great soul that presses to the sea Where life is rendered to eternity And eager thought hath rest in the Unknown. So sets thy tide, my country, to the deep Whose face is black with thunder near and far, And vexed with fleering gusts and tyrannous rain. Shall the cloud lift and give thee rest and sleep, Or wilt thou ’mid the surge and crash of war Shatter thy life against the invading main? ~ Archibald Thomas Strong,

1122:I never met anybody who didn't like Rumours It got played a lot around my house in the year of 'Anarchy in the U.K.' and 'White Riot,' and I think the reason why so many people who got airsick of being in the same room with Eagle records might find songs like 'Dreams' bringing them to tears was that Fleetwood Mac transcended FM Hollywood, not only by playing and singing with open-eyed passion but by articulating the painful questions of love (and the real answers that hurt). 'Thunder only happens when it's raining/Players only love you when they're playing' may have been obvious, but that was its very purity: you had been there, and could remember all too well when you first learned you can't change anybody. ~ Lester Bangs,

1123:Sixteen Moons, Sixteen Years Sixteen of your deepest fears Sixteen times you dreamed my tears Falling, Falling through the years Sixteen moons, sixteen years Sound of thunder in your ears Sixteen miles before she nears Sixteen seeks what sixteen fears Sixteen moons, sixteen years sixteen times you dreamed my fears Sixteen will try to Bind the spears Sixteen screams just one hears Sixteen moons, sixteen years The Claiming moon, the hour nears In these pages Darkness clears Powers bind what fire sears Sixteeth moon, Sixteenth year now has come the day you fear Claim or be Claimed Shed blood, Shed tear Moon or Sun- destroy, revere. ~ Kami Garcia,

1124:When?' said the moon to the stars in the sky Soon' said the wind that followed them all Who?' said the cloud that started to cry Me' said the rider as dry as a bone How?' said the sun that melted the ground and 'Why?' said the river that refused to run and 'Where?' said the thunder without a sound Here' said the rider and took up his gun No' said the stars to the moon in the sky No' said the trees that started to moan No' said the dust that blunted its eyes Yes' said the rider as white as a bone No' said the moon that rose from his sleep No' said the cry of the dying sun No' said the planet as it started to weep Yes' said the rider and laid down his gun ~ Nick Cave,

1125:He came to lying on his back with sunlight pouring down into his face and the murmur of running water close by. There was a brilliant ache in his optic nerve, and a steady, painless throbbing at the base of his skull—the distant thunder of an approaching migraine. He rolled onto his side and pushed up into a sitting position, tucking his head between his knees. Sensed the instability of the world long before he opened his eyes, like its axis had been cut loose to teeter. His first deep breath felt like someone driving a steel wedge between the ribs high on his left side, but he groaned through the pain and forced his eyes to open. His left eye must have been badly swollen, because it seemed like he was staring through a slit. ~ Anonymous,

1126:I never met anybody who didn't like Rumours. It got played a lot around my house in the year of 'Anarchy in the U.K.' and 'White Riot,' and I think the reason why so many people who got airsick of being in the same room with Eagle records might find songs like 'Dreams' bringing them to tears was that Fleetwood Mac transcended FM Hollywood, not only by playing and singing with open-eyed passion but by articulating the painful questions of love (and the real answers that hurt). 'Thunder only happens when it's raining/Players only love you when they're playing' may have been obvious, but that was its very purity: you had been there, and could remember all too well when you first learned you can't change anybody. ~ Lester Bangs,

1127:I am Lews Therin Telamon, the Dragon. I ruled these lands, unified, during the Age of Legends. I was leader of all the armies of the Light, I wore the Ring of Tamyrlin. I stood first among the Servants, highest of the Aes Sedai, and I could summon the Nine Rods of Dominion.” Rand stepped forward. “I held the loyalty and fealty of all seventeen Generals of Dawn’s Gate. Fortuona Athaem Devi Paendrag, my authority supersedes your own!” “Artur Hawkwing—” “My authority supersedes that of Hawkwing! If you claim rule by the name of he who conquered, then you must bow before my prior claim. I conquered before Hawkwing, though I needed no sword to do so. You are here on my land, Empress, at my sufferance!” Thunder broke in the distance. ~ Anonymous,

1128:Sonnet Xxxv. To Fortitude NYMPH of the rock! whose dauntless spirit braves The beating storm, and bitter winds that howl Round thy cold breast; and hear'st the bursting waves And the deep thunder with unshaken soul; Oh come!--and show how vain the cares that press On my weak bosom--and how little worth Is the false fleeting meteor, Happiness, That still misleads the wanderers of the earth! Strengthen'd by thee, this heart shall cease to melt O'er ills that poor humanity must bear; Nor friends estranged, or ties dissolved be felt To leave regret, and fruitless anguish there: And when at length it heaves its latest sigh, Thou and mild Hope shall teach me how to die. ~ Charlotte Smith,

1129:1035 The Wind Begun To Rock The Grass The wind begun to rock the grass With threatening tunes and low,-He flung a menace at the earth, A menace at the sky. The leaves unhooked themselves from trees And started all abroad; The dust did scoop itself like hands And throw away the road. The wagons quickened on the streets, The thunder hurried slow; The lightning showed a yellow beak, And then a livid claw. The birds put up the bars to nests, The cattle fled to barns; There came one drop of giant rain, And then, as if the hands That held the dams had parted hold, The waters wrecked the sky But overlooked my father's house, lust quartering a tree. ~ Emily Dickinson,

1130:He led a lost cause, and he was not afraid of God's thunderbolts........hurled into hell, he was unbeaten. A third of God's angels he had led with him, and straightaway he incited man to rebel against God, and gained for himself and hell a major portion of all the generations of man. Why was he beaten out of heaven? Because he was less brave than God? less proud? less aspiring? No! A thousand times no! God was more powerful, as he said, Whom thunder had made greater. But Lucifer was a free spirit. To serve was to suffocate. He preferred suffering in freedom to all the happiness of comfortable servility. He did not care to serve God. He cared to serve nothing. He was no figurehead. He stood on his own legs. He was an individual. ~ Jack London,

1131:The Railway Station The darkness brings no quiet here, the light No waking: ever on my blinded brain The flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain, The engines' scream, the hiss and thunder smite: I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight, Faces that touch, eyes that are dim with pain: I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great train Move labouring out into the bourneless night. So many souls within its dim recesses, So many bright, so many mournful eyes: Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and guesses; What threads of life, what hidden histories, What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses, What unknown thoughts, what various agonies! ~ Archibald Lampman,

1132:the barrel of the bat and flew out into the field, I felt a sense of joy and freedom as powerful and true as anything I’ve ever experienced. If you have never felt the resistance and connection of a bat hitting a baseball; if you have not heard the crack of the bat split an autumn afternoon; if you have not watched that ball sail through the open air and settle into the fresh-cut grass, you have missed one of life’s purest feelings of achievement. Hitting a ball is like catching a piece of the sky and sending it back up to itself. It’s like creating your own crack of thunder. And stopping a ball—especially a grounder you have to reach for, or a line drive that should have flown past your glove—is like catching a bolt of lightning. ~ Nina Revoyr,

1133:God’s voice is glorious in the thunder.        We can’t even imagine the greatness of his power. 6 “He directs the snow to fall on the earth        and tells the rain to pour down. 7 Then everyone stops working        so they can watch his power. 8 The wild animals take cover        and stay inside their dens. 9 The stormy wind comes from its chamber,        and the driving winds bring the cold. 10 God’s breath sends the ice,        freezing wide expanses of water. 11 He loads the clouds with moisture,        and they flash with his lightning. 12 The clouds churn about at his direction.        They do whatever he commands throughout the earth. 13 He makes these things happen either to punish people        or to show his unfailing love. ~ Anonymous,

1134:The Enemy My youth was nothing but a black storm Crossed now and then by brilliant suns. The thunder and the rain so ravage the shores Nothing's left of the fruit my garden held once. I should employ the rake and the plow, Having reached the autumn of ideas, To restore this inundated ground Where the deep grooves of water form tombs in the lees. And who knows if the new flowers you dreamed Will find in a soil stripped and cleaned The mystic nourishment that fortifies? O Sorrow—O Sorrow—Time consumes Life, And the obscure enemy that gnaws at my heart Uses the blood that I lose to play my part. Translated by William A. Sigler Submitted by Ryan McGuire ~ Charles Baudelaire,

1135:Part of the human experience is to confront temptation. No one escapes. It is omnipresent. It is both externally driven and internally prompted. It is like the enemy that attacks from all sides. It boldly assaults us in television shows, movies, billboards, and newspapers in the name of entertainment or free speech. It walks down our streets and sits in our offices in the name of fashion. It drives our roads in the name of style. It represents itself as political correctness or business necessity. It claims moral sanction under the guise of free choice. On occasion it roars like thunder; on others it whispers in subtle, soothing tones. With chameleon-like skill it camouflages its ever-present nature, but it is there--always there. ~ Tad R Callister,

1136:I have longed to move away From the hissing of the spent lie And the old terrors' continual cry Growing more terrible as the day Goes over the hill into the deep sea; I have longed to move away From the repetition of salutes, For there are ghosts in the air And ghostly echoes on paper, And the thunder of calls and notes. I have longed to move away but am afraid; Some life, yet unspent, might explode Out of the old lie burning on the ground, And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind. Neither by night's ancient fear, The parting of hat from hair, Pursed lips at the receiver, Shall I fall to death's feather. By these I would not care to die, Half convention and half lie. ~ Dylan Thomas,

1137:The Sleeping Giant (Thunder Bay, Lake Superior) When did you sink to your dreamless sleep Out there in your thunder bed? Where the tempests sweep, And the waters leap, And the storms rage overhead. Were you lying there on your couch alone Ere Egypt and Rome were born? Ere the Age of Stone, Or the world had known The Man with the Crown of Thorn. The winds screech down from the open west, And the thunders beat and break On the amethyst Of your rugged breast,-But you never arise or wake. You have locked your past, and you keep the key In your heart 'neath the westing sun, Where the mighty sea And its shores will be Storm-swept till the world is done. ~ Emily Pauline Johnson,

1138:I once compiled a list of events that frightened her, and it was quite comprehensive: very loud snoring; low-flying aircraft; church bells; fire engines; trains; buses and lorries; thunder; shouting; large cars; most medium-sized cars; noisy small cars; burglar alarms; fireworks, especially crackers; loud radios; barking dogs; whinnying horses; nearby silent horses; cows in general; megaphones; sheep; corks coming out of sparkling wine bottles; motorcycles, even very small ones; balloons being popped; vacuum cleaners (not being used by her); things being dropped; dinner gongs; parrot houses; whoopee cushions; chiming doorbells; hammering; bombs; hooters; old-fashioned alarm clocks; pneumatic drills; and hairdryers (even those used by her). ~ John Cleese,

1139:It happen’d one Day about Noon going towards my Boat, I was exceedingly surpriz’d with the Print of a Man’s naked Foot on the Shore, which was very plain to be seen in the Sand: I stood like one Thunder-struck, or as if I had seen an Apparition; I listen’d, I look’d round me, I could hear nothing, nor see any Thing, I went up to a rising Ground to look farther, I went up the Shore and down the Shore, but it was all one, I could see no other Impression but that one, I went to it again to see if there were any more, and to observe if it might not be my Fancy; but there was no Room for that, for there was exactly the very Print of a Foot, Toes, Heel, and every Part of a Foot; how it came thither, I knew not, nor could in the least imagine. But ~ Daniel Defoe,

1140:On the hill opposite, Joachim tolled the midday bell, announcing lunch to the workers in the fields. Klaus listened a moment, then said, "I thought it would be a bleaker scene." Dietrich turned to him, "What would be?" "This day. I thought it would be marked by terrible signs - lowering clouds, ominous winds, a crack of thunder. Twilight. Yet, it is so ordinary a morning that I grow frightened." "Only now frightened." "Ja. Portents would mean a Divine Mover, however mysterious His moves; and the wrath of an angry God may be turned away by prayer and penance. But it simply happened. Everard grew sick and fell down. There were no signs; so it may be a natural thing, as you have always said. And against nature, we have no recourse. ~ Michael Flynn,

1141:The Constitution, the National Assembly, the dynastic parties, the blue and the red republicans, the heroes of Africa, the thunder from the platform, the sheet lightning of the daily press, the entire literature, the political names and the intellectual reputations, the civil law and penal code, the liberté, égalité, fraternité and the second of May 1852—all have vanished like a phantasmagoria before the spell of a man whom even his enemies do not make out to be a magician. Universal suffrage seems to have survived only for a moment, in order that with its own hand it may make its last will and testament before the eyes of all the world and declare in the name of the people itself: Everything that exists has this much worth, that it will perish. ~ Karl Marx,

1142:Whatever she might have said was drowned out when the door to her cabin swung open and slammed against the wall. She and Petey sprang apart at once, but it was too late. Gideon was staring at them with thunder on his face. “You and I had a bargain, Hargraves. And it appears you aren’t keeping your end of it.” Though the blood drained from Petey’s face, he pulled himself up straight. “It wouldn’t have been right to leave without sayin’ goodbye. An honorable man wouldn’t have done it.” “An honorable man wouldn’t have sold her out for gold, either. Did you tell her that? Did you tell her you were more than happy to take wealth over her?” When Petey merely shrugged, the look on Gideon’s face made Sara’s heart skip more than one beat. ~ Sabrina Jeffries,

1143:From college to those bleak textbook-company years, come evening I’d listen to the Such Sweet Thunder album, the “Star-Crossed Lovers” track over and over. Johnny Hodges had this sensitive and elegant solo on it. Whenever I heard that languid, beautiful melody, those days came back to me. It wasn’t what I’d characterize as a happy part of my life, living as I was, a balled-up mass of unfulfilled desires. I was much younger, much hungrier, much more alone. But I was myself, pared down to the essentials. I could feel each single note of music, each line I read, seep down deep inside me. My nerves were sharp as a blade, my eyes shining with a piercing light. And every time I heard that music, I recalled my eyes then, glaring back at me from a mirror. ~ Haruki Murakami,

1144:The Passing Of Love O God, forgive me that I ranged My live into a dream of love! Will tears of anguish never wash The passion from my blood? Love kept my heart in a song of joy, My pulses quivered to the tune; The coldest blasts of winter blew Upon me like sweet airs in June. Love floated on the mists of morn And rested on the sunset’s rays; He calmed the thunder of the storm And lighted all my ways. Love held me joyful through the day And dreaming ever through the night; No evil thing could come to me, My spirit was so light. O Heaven help my foolish heart Which heeded not the passing time That dragged my idol from its place And shattered all its shrine. ~ Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal,

1145:It takes will power and nerve to hold the stick that way, to keep his eyes open and watch the rocky face of the cliff, pine-bearded, rush up at them. O'Shaughnessy's mouth flattens, his face goes white. And then in that final fraction of a moment, he laughs, a little crazily - a laugh of defiance, of mocking farewell, and, somehow, of conquest. 'Here we go, baby!' he shouts, teeth bared. 'Now I'm going to find out what it really feels like to fly into the side of a mountain!...' There is only the storm to hear the smash of the plane as it splinters itself against the rock - and the storm drowns the sound out with thunder, just as the lightning turns pale the flame that rises, like a hungry tongue, from the wreckage. ("Jane Browns Body") ~ Cornell Woolrich,

1146:The wise man, then, when he must govern, knows how to do nothing. Letting things alone, he rests in his original nature. He who will govern will respect the governed no more than he respects himself. If he loves his own person enough to let it rest in its original truth, he will govern others without hurting them. Let him keep the deep drives in his own guts from going into action. Let him keep still, not looking, not hearing. Let him sit like a corpse, with the dragon power alive all around him. In complete silence, his voice will be like thunder. His movements will be invisible, like those of a spirit, but the powers of heaven will go with them. Unconcerned, doing nothing, he will see all things grow ripe around him. Where will he find time to govern? ~ Thomas Merton,

1147:The Ocean's Song We walked amongst the ruins famed in story Of Rozel-Tower, And saw the boundless waters stretch in glory And heave in power. O Ocean vast! We heard thy song with wonder, Whilst waves marked time. "Appear, O Truth!" thou sang'st with tone of thunder, "And shine sublime! "The world's enslaved and hunted down by beagles, To despots sold. Souls of deep thinkers, soar like mighty eagles! The Right uphold. "Be born! arise! o'er the earth and wild waves bounding, Peoples and suns! Let darkness vanish; tocsins be resounding, And flash, ye guns! "And you who love no pomps of fog or glamour, Who fear no shocks, Brave foam and lightning, hurricane and clamour,-- Exiles: the rocks! ~ Victor Hugo,

1148:Love The Wild Swan I hate my verses, every line, every word. Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to try One grass-blade's curve, or the throat of one bird That clings to twig, ruffled against white sky. Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to catch One color, one glinting Hash, of the splendor of things. Unlucky hunter, Oh bullets of wax, The lion beauty, the wild-swan wings, the storm of the wings." --This wild swan of a world is no hunter's game. Better bullets than yours would miss the white breast Better mirrors than yours would crack in the flame. Does it matter whether you hate your . . . self? At least Love your eyes that can see, your mind that can Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan. ~ Robinson Jeffers,

1149:Romance Romance, who loves to nod and sing, With drowsy head and folded wing, Among the green leaves as they shake Far down within some shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet Hath been- a most familiar birdTaught me my alphabet to sayTo lisp my very earliest word While in the wild wood I did lie, A child- with a most knowing eye. Of late, eternal Condor years So shake the very Heaven on high With tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares Through gazing on the unquiet sky. And when an hour with calmer wings Its down upon my spirit flingsThat little time with lyre and rhyme To while away- forbidden things! My heart would feel to be a crime Unless it trembled with the strings. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

1150:The light belies the bony solidity of the land, playing over it like emotion on a face, and in this the desert is intensely alive, as the apparent mood of mountains changes hourly, as places that are flat and stark at noon fill with shadows and mystery in the evening, as darkness becomes a reservoir from which the eyes drink, as clouds promise rain that comes like passion and leaves like redemption, rain that delivers itself with thunder, with lightning, with a rise of scents in this place so pure that moisture, dust, and the various bushes all have their own smell in the sudden humidity. Alive with the primal forces of rock, weather, wind, light, and time in which biology is only an uninvited guest fending for itself, gilded, dwarfed, and threatened by its hosts. ~ Rebecca Solnit,

1151:Apotheosised, transfigured by wisdom's touch,    Her days became a luminous sacrifice;    An immortal moth in happy and endless fire,    She burned in his sweet intolerable blaze.    A captive Life wedded her conqueror.    In his wide sky she built her world anew;    She gave to mind's calm pace the motor's speed,    To thinking a need to live what the soul saw,    To living an impetus to know and see.    His splendour grasped her, her puissance to him clung;    She crowned the Idea a king in purple robes,    Put her magic serpent sceptre in Thought's grip,    Made forms his inward vision's rhythmic shapes    And her acts the living body of his will.    A flaming thunder, a creator flash,    His victor Light rode on her deathless Force;    ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Glory and the Fall of Life,

1152:It is she who has a hold on him. Doesn't she see how much he needs her? She has nothing to be afraid of, her conscience is clear. It is he who should be ashamed, and terrified of her giving him away. But that is just what she will never do. To do this she does not have the necessary ruthlessness--Komarovsky's chief asset in dealing with subordinates and weaklings. This is precisely the difference between them. And it is this that makes the whole of life so terrifying. Does it crush you by thunder and lightning? No, by oblique glances and whispered calumny. It is all treachery and ambiguity. Any single thread is as fragile as a cobweb, but just try to pull yourself out of the net, you only become more entangled. And the strong are dominated by the weak and ignoble. ~ Boris Pasternak,

1153:From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ’round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

1154:From childhood's hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then- in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life- was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

1155:There were two people…things at the cave entrance,’ I whispered, shuffling as close to him as possible, my eyes trained on where the strangers had stood only seconds ago. At my words, Patrick seemed to jolt awake. ‘Sometimes the fire makes shadows when it’s dying,’ he said, sitting up, his arm brushing against my side. ‘I’ve slept here many times and it happens,’ he added. ‘No. They were real.’ My thudding heart was like thunder in my ears. ‘They were really tall and pale, and blond, really, really blond.’ ‘Maybe, as you were falling asleep tonight, you were thinking about the shadows at your window, which caused you to dream about two blond men?’ His warm breath tickled my hair. ‘And maybe, deep down, you have a thing for blonds. I’m a little offended, actually. ~ Vanessa Garden,

1156:I cannot describe Or explain the speed of light Or what makes thunder roll across the sky And I could never theorize about the universe’s size Or explain why some men live and some men die I can’t even guess I would never profess To know why you are here with me And I cannot comprehend How numbers have no end The things you understand, I can’t conceive Infinity + One Is still infinity. And no matter how I try I’m bound by gravity. But the things I thought I knew Changed the minute I met you. It seems I’m weightless And I’m endless after all. Weightless and endless. Timeless and restless. So light that I’ll never fall. Weightless and endless. Hopelessly breathless. I guess I knew nothing at all. ~ Amy Harmon,

1157:Masses of warring men animated the horizon, crashing into stubborn ranks, churning in melee. The air didn’t so much thunder as hiss with the sound of distant battle, like a sea heard through a conch shell, Martemus thought—an angry sea. Winded, he watched the first of Conphas’s assassins stride up behind Prince Kellhus, raise his short-sword … There was an impossible moment—a sharp intake of breath. The Prophet simply turned and caught the descending blade between his thumb and forefinger. “No,” he said, then swept around, knocking the man to the turf with an unbelievable kick. Somehow the assassin’s sword found its way into his left hand. Still crouched, the Prophet drove it down through the assassin’s throat, nailing him to the turf. A mere heartbeat had passed. ~ R Scott Bakker,

1158:I am observing a distinct historical development of the Norse culture of Scandinavia (Denmark, Norway, and Sweden) through symbolism. Contrary to ancient Egyptian 18th Dynasty, Indian, Jewish, German, Gnostic and Greek positive connotations of the Ouroboros, the Norse had Jörmungandr as an arch-enemy of their thunder-god, Thor. Although the etymology (according to my own observations and discoveries) of the word 'Thor' itself refers to a 'Bull', but that is a later on introduced interpretation that was more probably and condescendingly assigned to the Norse culture in the Middle East by its foe - like by the culture of the Jews that has a reverse symbolism; however, the root itself is derived from the verb 'to revolt' signaling thereby the different and opposing worldview. ~ Ibrahim Ibrahim,

1159:Roll the Dharma thunder, Beat the Dharma drum. Clouds of kindness gather. Sweet dew is dispersed; Dragons and elephants tread upon it, moistening everything. The Three Vehicles and five natures are all roused awake. The Himalaya Pinodhni grass is unalloyed indeed; Pure ghee produced from it I have often partaken of. The nature completely pervades all natures. The dharma everywhere contains all dharmas. One moon universally appears in all waters. The moons in all waters are by one moon gathered in. [bk1sm.gif] -- from Song of Enlightenment: By Great Master Yung Chia of the T'ang Dynasty, Edited by Tripitaka Master Hua / Translated by International Institute for the Translation of Buddhist Texts ~ Hsuan Chueh of Yung Chia, Roll the Dharma thunder (from The Song of Enlightenment) ,

1160:I ASKED if I should pray. But the Brahmin said, "pray for nothing, say Every night in bed, ""I have been a king, I have been a slave, Nor is there anything. Fool, rascal, knave, That I have not been, And yet upon my breast A myriad heads have lain.''' That he might Set at rest A boy's turbulent days Mohini Chatterjee Spoke these, or words like these, I add in commentary, "Old lovers yet may have All that time denied Grave is heaped on grave That they be satisfied Over the blackened earth The old troops parade, Birth is heaped on Birth That such cannonade May thunder time away, Birth-hour and death-hour meet, Or, as great sages say, Men dance on deathless feet.' ~ William Butler Yeats, Mohini Chatterjee ,

1161:Alone" From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ’round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

1162:I Have Longed To Move Away I have longed to move away From the hissing of the spent lie And the old terrors' continual cry Growing more terrible as the day Goes over the hill into the deep sea; I have longed to move away From the repetition of salutes, For there are ghosts in the air And ghostly echoes on paper, And the thunder of calls and notes. I have longed to move away but am afraid; Some life, yet unspent, might explode Out of the old lie burning on the ground, And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind. Neither by night's ancient fear, The parting of hat from hair, Pursed lips at the receiver, Shall I fall to death's feather. By these I would not care to die, Half convention and half lie. ~ Dylan Thomas,

1163:For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there raind a ghastly dew From the nations airy navies grappling in the central blue; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging thro the thunder-storm; Till the war-drums throbbd, no longer, and the battle-flags were furled In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. ~ Alfred Tennyson,

1164:the libel that Jews ritually murdered Christian children to mix their blood in the unleavened bread baked at Passover appears to have originated in twelfth-century England. By the fifteenth century it had reached German-speaking Central Europe; by the sixteenth, Poland, and by the eighteenth century it was firmly established all over Eastern Europe, from Lithuania to Romania. In 1840 there was an international outcry over a ‘blood libel’ case in Damascus. But such allegations did not manifest themselves in Russia until the later nineteenth century. Nor was outright violence against Jewish communities a Russian tradition. What became known in Russia as ‘pogroms’ – literally ‘after thunder’ – had been a recurrent feature of life in Western and Central Europe from medieval times onwards. ~ Niall Ferguson,

1165:The Fyghtynge Seventh It is the gallant Seventh It fyghteth faste and free! God wot the where it fyghteth I ne desyre to be. The Gonfalon it flyeth, Seeming a Flayme in Sky; The Bugel loud yblowen is, Which sayeth, Doe and dye! And (O good Saints defende us Agaynst the Woes of Warr) Drawn Tongues are flashing deadly To smyte the Foeman sore! With divers kinds of Riddance The smoaking Earth is wet, And all aflowe to seaward goe The Torrents wide of Sweat! The Thunder of the Captens, And eke the Shouting, mayketh Such horrid Din the Soule within The boddy of me quayketh! Who fyghteth the bold Seventh? What haughty Power defyes? Their Colonel 'tis they drubben sore, And dammen too his Eyes! ~ Ambrose Bierce,

1166:From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ’round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

1167:Whoo-oop! I'm the old original iron-jawed, brass-mounted, copper-bellied corpse-maker from the wilds of Arkansaw!—Look at me! I'm the man they call Sudden Death and General Desolation! Sired by a hurricane, dam'd by an earthquake, half-brother to the cholera, nearly related to the small-pox on the mother's side! Look at me! I take nineteen alligators and a bar'l of whiskey for breakfast when I'm in robust health, and a bushel of rattlesnakes and a dead body when I'm ailing! I split the everlasting rocks with my glance, and I squench the thunder when I speak! Whoo-oop! Stand back and give me room according to my strength! Blood's my natural drink, and the wails of the dying is music to my ear! Cast your eye on me, gentlemen!—and lay low and hold your breath, for I'm bout to turn myself loose! ~ Mark Twain,

1168:I think our lives are mapped out for us. They are too complex, too perfect to be an accident of randomness. They have an inescapable narrative - a beginning , middle and end - unnecessary except by design. Birth, life and death, neatly seperated and sequenced. Authored, if you will, by the universe's own hand. We are gifted existence in three acts, but we can only ever understand our middle third. We cannot control our birth, yet though we have no power over this first act of ours we believe we can manipulate our second act, our life, to control our death. We cannot choose either, and it is right we cannot. We think we are the lightning or the thunder, but we're merely raindrops in a storm. We forget we are ordained a time to live and a time to die. They are chosen for us, only when that time is right. ~ Tom Wood,

1169:Leaving Things Alone (excerpt) The wise man, then, when he must govern, knows how to do nothing. Letting things alone, he rests in his original nature. He who will govern will respect the governed no more than he respects himself. If he loves his own person enough to let it rest in its original truth, he will govern others without hurting them. Let him keep the deep drives in his own guts from going into action. Let him keep still, not looking, not hearing. Let him sit like a corpse, with the dragon power alive all around him. In complete silence, his voice will be like thunder. His movements will be invisible, like those of the spirit, but the powers of heaven will go with them. Unconcerned, doing nothing, he will see all things grow ripe around him. Where will he find time to govern? ~ Thomas Merton,

1170:Fear cannot touch me . . .” Before she closed her eyes, Meredith saw Greg look nervously from Stephen to Brandon. “It can only taunt me, it cannot take me, just tell me where to go . . .” She opened her eyes slightly. Greg had taken Brandon’s hand. She shut her eyes by the time Brandon gripped hers. “I can either follow, or stay in my bed . . .” Meredith knew the circle was complete. While she didn’t quite know what it meant for them to hold hands like this, she knew that Stephen’s voice seemed louder than the growls of the angry storm overhead. “I can hold on to the things that I know . . .” Another roll of thunder passed. Meredith felt it in her chest. Stephen paused to let it fade before he continued. “The dead stay dead, they cannot walk. The shadows are darkness. And darkness can’t talk.” No one ~ Christopher Rice,

1171:The Birth Of The Water Baby Little egg, little nub, full complement of fingers, toes, little rose blooming in a red universe, which once wanted you less than emptiness, but now holds you fast, containing your rapid heart beat under its slower one as the earth contains the sea... O avocado pit almost ready to sprout, tiny fruit tree within sight of the sea, little swimming fish, little land lover, hold on! hold on! Here, under my heart you'll keep till it's time for us to meet, & we come apart that we may come together, & you are born remembering the wavesound of my blood, the thunder of my heart, & like your mother 189 always dreaming of the sea. ~ Erica Jong,

1172:Alone From childhood's hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then- in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life- was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

1173:Driven by her breath across life's tossing deep, Through the thunder's roar and through the windless hush, Through fog and mist where nothing more is seen, He carries her sealed orders in his breast. Late will he know, opening the mystic script, Whether to a blank port in the Unseen He goes or, armed with her fiat, to discover A new mind and body in the city of God And enshrine the Immortal in his glory's house And make the finite one with Infinity. Across the salt waste of the endless years Her ocean winds impel his errant boat, The cosmic waters plashing as he goes, A rumour around him and danger and a call. Always he follows in her force's wake. He sails through life and death and other life, He travels on through waking and through sleep. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, 1:4,

1174:Briggs was living in Toronto at the time and had started a studio called Thunder Sound. He recorded the Massey Hall show. He thought this live show should have come out right away and was disappointed and disagreed with my decision to instead put out Harvest-he thought it was not as good as the Massey Hall recording. "It's great, Neil," Briggs said. "Put it out there." But that was not to be. When I heard the show thirty-four years later while reviewing tapes for my archive performance series, I was a little shocked-I agreed with David. After listening, I felt his frustration. This was better than Harvest. It meant more. He was right. I had missed it. He understood it. David was usually right, and when I disagreed with him, I was usually wrong. Every time I go into the studio or onstage, he is missed. ~ Neil Young,

1175:1119 When Mother Sleeps When mother sleeps, a slamming door Disturbs her not at all; A man might walk across the floor Or wander through the hall A pistol shot outside would not Drive slumber from her eyes— But she is always on the spot The moment baby cries. The thunder crash she would not hear, Nor shouting in the street; A barking dog, however near, Of sleep can never cheat Dear mother, but I've noticed this To my profound surprise: That always wide-awake she is The moment baby cries. However weary she may be, Though wrapped in slumber deep, Somehow it always seems to me Her vigil she will keep. Sound sleeper that she is, I take It in her heart there lies A love that causes her to wake The moment baby cries. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

1176:If you’ve never passed a winter in Chicago, let me describe it: You can live for a hundred straight days beneath an iron-gray sky that claps itself like a lid over the city. Frigid, biting winds blow in off the lake. Snow falls in dozens of ways, in heavy overnight dumps and daytime, sideways squalls, in demoralizing sloppy sleet and fairy-tale billows of fluff. There’s ice, usually, lots of it, that shellacs the sidewalks and windshields that then need to be scraped. There’s the sound of that scraping in the early mornings—the hack hack hack of it—as people clear their cars to go to work. Your neighbors, unrecognizable in the thick layers they wear against the cold, keep their faces down to avoid the wind. City snowplows thunder through the streets as the white snow gets piled up and sooty, until nothing is pristine. ~ Michelle Obama,

1177:So many things that are so dramatic or exciting when you read about them actually happen so simply and quietly. We humans like to consider ourselves important to creation and to the world, and we expect that whenever death comes it should be with a crash of thunder and wild shouts or something, or with soft music around and people looking grave and serious. We always have it that way in the theatre because it makes us believe in our importance. Most of our life is a matter of dressing ourselves up to believe in just that, dressing ourselves in attractive clothes, in titles, in reputations. Actually, at base we all realize that we're just a frightened bundle of animals, still afraid of the unknown, and still afraid of thousands of things that can separate us from life, and trying to shield ourselves from our own smallness. ~ Louis L Amour,

1178:I. The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, Months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; Follow the bier Of the dead cold Year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. II. The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the Year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling; Come, Months, come away; Put on white, black, and gray; Let your light sisters play-- Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold Year, And make her grave green with tear on tear.    ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Autumn - A Dirge ,

1179:Sonnet Lix. Written Sept. 1791, during a remarkable thunder storm, in which the moon was perfectly clear, while the tempest gathered in various directions near the earth. WHAT awful pageants crowd the evening sky! The low horizon gathering vapours shroud, Sudden, from many a deep-embattled cloud Terrific thunders burst and lightnings fly-While in serenest azure, beaming high, Night's regent, of her calm pavilion proud, Gilds the dark shadows that beneath her lie, Unvex'd by all their conflicts fierce and loud. --So, in unsullied dignity elate, A spirit conscious of superior worth, In placid elevation firmly great, Scorns the vain cares that give Contention birth; And blest with peace above the shocks of Fate, Smiles at the tumult of the troubled earth. ~ Charlotte Smith,

1180:Words for everyday showers of prettiness, and the kind of misty loveliness that disappears whenever you try to grasp it. Beauty that’s heralded by impressive thunder, but turns out to be all flash. And beyond all these, there’d be this word . . . a word that even the most grizzled, wizened elders might have uttered twice in their lifetimes, and in hushed, fearful tones at that. A word for a sudden, cataclysmic torrent of beauty with the power to change landscapes. Make plains out of valleys and alter the course of rivers and leave people clinging to trees, alive and resentful, shaking their fists at the heavens.” A hint of sensual frustration roughened his voice. “And I will curse the gods along with them, Min. Some wild monsoon raged through me as I looked at you just now. It’s left me rearranged inside, and I don’t have a map. ~ Tessa Dare,

1181:In prehistoric times, early man was bowled over by natural events: rain, thunder, lightning, the violent shaking and moving of the ground, mountains spewing deathly hot lava, the glow of the moon, the burning heat of the sun, the twinkling of the stars. Our human brain searched for an answer, and the conclusion was that it all must be caused by something greater than ourselves - this, of course, sprouted the earliest seeds of religion. This theory is certainly reflected in faery lore. In the beautiful sloping hills of Connemara in Ireland, for example, faeries were believed to have been just as beautiful, peaceful, and pleasant as the world around them. But in the Scottish Highlands, with their dark, brooding mountains and eerie highland lakes, villagers warned of deadly water-kelpies and spirit characters that packed a bit more punch. ~ Signe Pike,

1182:The Poor Children Take heed of this small child of earth; He is great; he hath in him God most high. Children before their fleshly birth Are lights alive in the blue sky. In our light bitter world of wrong They come; God gives us them awhile. His speech is in their stammering tongue, And his forgiveness in their smile. Their sweet light rests upon our eyes. Alas! their right to joy is plain. If they are hungry Paradise Weeps, and, if cold, Heaven thrills with pain. The want that saps their sinless flower Speaks judgment on sin's ministers. Man holds an angel in his power. Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs, When God seeks out these tender things Whom in the shadow where we sleep He sends us clothed about with wings, And finds them ragged babes that weep ~ Victor Hugo,

1183:You're mine now, Harry thought at the walls of Diagon Alley, and all the shops and items, and all the shopkeepers and customers; and all the lands and people of wizarding Britain, and all the wider wizarding world; and the entire greater universe of which Muggle scientists understood so much less than they believed. I, Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, do now claim this territory in the name of Science. Lightning and thunder completely failed to flash and boom in the cloudless skies. "What are you smiling about?" inquired Professor McGonagall, warily and wearily. "I'm wondering if there's a spell to make lightning flash in the background whenever I make an ominous resolution," explained Harry. He was carefully memorising the exact words of his ominous resolution so that future history books would get it right. ~ Eliezer Yudkowsky,

1184:The Rock In The Sea Think of our blindness where the water burned! Are we so certain that those wings, returned And turning, we had half discerned Before our dazzled eyes had surely seen The bird aloft there, did not mean?— Our hearts so seized upon the sign! Think how we sailed up-wind, the brine Tasting of daphne, the enormous wave Thundering in the water cave— Thunder in stone. And how we beached the skiff And climbed the coral of that iron cliff And found what only in our hearts we’d heard— The silver screaming of that one, white bird: The fabulous wings, the crimson beak That opened, red as blood, to shriek And clamor in that world of stone, No voice to answer but its own. What certainty, hidden in our hearts before, Found in the bird its metaphor? ~ Archibald MacLeish,

1185:The world is going under, I thought, and this notion so little surprised me, it seemed as though I had been waiting a long time for just that to happen. But now, from amid the burning and collapsing city, I saw a boy come toward me. His hands were buried in his pockets and he hopped and skipped from one leg to another, resilient and light-hearted. Then he stopped and emitted an ingenious whistle -- our signal from grade school days, and the boy was my friend who had shot himself when he was a student. Immediately I too became, like him, a boy of twelve, and the burning city and the distant thunder and the blustering storm of howling voices from all corners of the world sounded wondrously exquisite to our newly awakened ears. Now everything was good, and the dark nightmare in which I had lived for so many despairing years was gone forever. ~ Hermann Hesse,

1186:What was exchanged in the language of their eyes, more perfect than their lips, the language afforded the soul so that no sound disturbs an ecstasy of feeling? In those moments, when the thought of the two happy beings meld through their pupils, words move slowly, coarsely, like the raspy, awkward noise of thunder from dazzling light that appears after the quickness of the flash. It expresses feelings previously known, ideas yet understood, and in the end, if one must use words, it is because the heart’s ambitions—which dominates one’s whole being and overflows with happiness—wishes with the whole human organism, with all its physical and psychical faculties, to embody the poem of joy that the spirit has intoned. Language has no answer to the questions of love that either shimmer or hide within a glance. The smile must respond; the kiss, the sigh. ~ Jos Rizal,

1187:While a battle still entirely political was preparing in this same place which had already seen so many revolutionary events, while the youth, the secret associations, the schools in the name of principles, and the middle class in the name of interests, were moving in to dash against each other, to grapple and overthrow each other, while each was hurrying and calling the final and decisive hour of the crisis, far off and outside that fatal sector, in the deepest of the unfathomable caverns of that miserable old Paris, the gloomy voice of the people was heard deeply growling. A fearful, sacred voice, composed of the roaring brute and the speech of God, which terrifies the feeble and warns the wise, which comes at the same time from below like the voice of a lion and from above like the voice of thunder. Page 1123 Saint-Denis Chapter 13 part II ~ Victor Hugo,

1188:Trees In The Garden Ah in the thunder air how still the trees are! And the lime-tree, lovely and tall, every leaf silent hardly looses even a last breath of perfume. And the ghostly, creamy coloured little tree of leaves white, ivory white among the rambling greens how evanescent, variegated elder, she hesitates on the green grass as if, in another moment, she would disappear with all her grace of foam! And the larch that is only a column, it goes up too tall to see: and the balsam-pines that are blue with the grey-blue blueness of things from the sea, and the young copper beech, its leaves red-rosy at the ends how still they are together, they stand so still in the thunder air, all strangers to one another as the green grass glows upwards, strangers in the silent garden. ~ David Herbert Lawrence,

1189:Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell,' Holly advised him. 'That was Doc's mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up, Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky." "She's drunk," Joe Bell informed me. "Moderately," Holly confessed....Holly lifted her martini. "Let's wish the Doc luck, too," she said, touching her glass against mine. "Good luck: and believe me, dearest Doc -- it's better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear. ~ Truman Capote,

1190:So, when the heart is stricken, and the head is humbled in the dust, civilization fails us utterly. Back, back, we creep, and lay us like little children on the great breast of Nature, she that perchance may soothe us and make us forget, or at least rid remembrance of its sting. Who has not in his great grief felt a longing to look upon the outward features of the universal Mother; to lie on the mountains and watch the clouds drive across the sky and hear the rollers break in thunder on the shore, to let his poor struggling life mingle for a while in her life; to feel the slow beat of her eternal heart, and to forget his woes, and let his identity be swallowed in the vast imperceptibly moving energy of her of whom we are, from whom we came, and with whom we shall again be mingled, who gave us birth, and will in a day to come give us our burial also. ~ H Rider Haggard,

1191:Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o' the great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke: Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan; All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have; And renownéd be thy grave! ~ William Shakespeare,

1192:The mythical Thunderbird, in one form or another, was held in awe by practically all of the Indian tribes. On the Great Plains, where the phenomena of thunderstorms was very striking, the Thunderbird was supposed to be a deity in the form of a bird of enormous size, which produced thunder by flapping its wings, and lightning by opening and closing its eyes. These great birds were thought to carry a lake of fresh water on their backs, which caused a great downpour when they flew through the air. Tribes of the Pacific Coast thought the Thunderbird caught whales during a thunderstorm and used its wings as a bow to shoot arrows. Each tribe interpreted the bird differently in its art, as shown on these two pages. The design of the Thunderbird was used to decorate war drums, pottery, and walls and was supposed to protect individuals and tribes from the Evil Spirits. ~ W Ben Hunt,

1193:To The Happy Hunting Grounds Wide windy reaches of high stubble field; A long gray road, bordered with dusty pines; A wagon moving in a 'cloud by day.' Two city sportsmen with a dove between, Breast-high upon a fence and fast asleep A solitary dove, the only dove In twenty counties, and it sick, or else It were not there. Two guns that fire as one, With thunder simultaneous and loud; Two shattered human wrecks of blood and bone! And later, in the gloaming, comes a man The worthy local coroner is he, Renowned all thereabout, and popular With many a remain. All tenderly Compiling in a game-bag the debris, He glides into the gloom and fades from sight. The dove, cured of its ailment by the shock, Has flown, meantime, on pinions strong and fleet, To die of age in some far foreign land. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

1194:Because they were frightened of me.” She crossed her arms as best she could. “Not because they respected me.” “I think we can both agree that fear is a type of respect.” “Perhaps.” She looked slightly placated. “Everyone I meet who knows of my power fears me. Maybe I’m the most respected person in the world.” “Maybe,” I agreed, and thunder rolled overhead. Ilsa glanced upwards, her features illuminated by a flicker of lightning. We sat in silence for a few minutes longer, before I jumped down from the wagon. “You don’t fear me, though,” Ilsa called as I searched for another stick. “I can tell. You think yourself more powerful.” She jumped as lightning cracked through the sky overhead. I heard several prisoners further back, exclaiming loudly. “Maybe,” I repeated, and started work on another dance as Ilsa watched. ~ Aprille Legacy,

1195:Once upon a valley There came down From some goldenblue mountains A handsome young prince Who was riding a dawncolored horse Names Lordsburg. I love you You’re my breathing castle Gentle so gentle We’ll live forever In the valley There was a beautiful maiden Whom the prince drifted into love with Like a New Mexico made from apple thunder and long glass beds. I love you You’re my breathing castle Gentle so gentle We’ll live forever The prince enchanted The maiden And they rode off On the dawncolored horse Named Lordsburg Toward the goldenblue mountains. I love you You’re my breathing castle Gentle so gentle We’ll live forever They would have lived happily ever after if the horse hadn’t had a flat tire In front of a dragon’s House. ~ Richard Brautigan,

1196:To the delicate, You will fall for the rough ones. the cold ones. the ones filled with apathy. you will spend your time counting their affection in change. you will stuff your pockets with silence. you will settle for second hand love. Delicate, you will be fashioned in the art of forgiveness. you will love like it’s a religion. you will memorize birthdays, phone numbers, and the moments you’ve heard goodbye. and when life becomes unyielding, and the burden too heavy, you will fault yourself. blame the material you are made of. say that you rip too easy, expect too much, give too often. you are a well that keeps on leaking. but even if you overflow, even if the thunder finds your home, you must remain soft. and if they have broken your heart, allow it to make you softer. kinder. do not imitate the cruel. do not allow yourself to take the shape of those who hurt you. ~ Sabah Khodir,

1197:The feeling of being trapped, of being helpless against his strength, his lust, and what my body needed was almost overwhelming. My eyes shuttered closed at the effort of not struggling in his harsh grasp. He whispered against my face, and I could not focus enough to see him. “Do you want to ride the storm?” His breath was hot against my skin. His voice promised no gentleness, no compromise. I knew the kind of sex he was offering, and the thought of it tightened things low in my body, drew another small sound from my throat. “Yes,” I whispered, “yes.” The roll of thunder echoed down the hallway, shuddering between the stone walls. The sound seemed to vibrate out of his body and into mine as if my body were a tuning fork struck against the rim of some great metal cup. His voice growled against my skin, with the taste of thunder in it. “Good,” he said and forced me to my knees. ~ Laurell K Hamilton,

1198:What are you doing, Alys?" He'd turned to watch her, and his expression was disbelieving. She'd emerged from the winding staircase to stand in the open, but she hadn't yet been able to make her feet move further. "Facing my fears," she said in a wobbly voice. "Courting death?" "Are you going to kill me?" "The lightning might." "Are you you going to kill me?" she persisted, flinching when the thunder rumbled again. "Would you ride a horse for me?" he countered. "Yes." "Would you walk across this parapet to come to me?" "Yes." And shes started forward, shivering as the rain lashed down around them. She halted just out of reach, lifting her head and throwing back her shoulders with quiet determination. "Would you come to me?" she asked him. "Yes," he said. And he crossed the last few feet of the parapet and pulled her into his arms, kissing her mouth. ~ Anne Stuart,

1199:To One In Paradise Thou wast all that to me, love, For which my soul did pineA green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine, All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine. Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries, 'On! on!'- but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast! For, alas! alas! me For me the light of Life is over! 'No more- no more- no more-' (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree Or the stricken eagle soar! And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy grey eye glances, And where thy footstep gleamsIn what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

1200:Quinn and Lisa He pulled her to her feet. "Let's go home." "Sure." "Want to ride double?" "On your horse?" "I promise Thunder will be on his best behavior." "Quinn, he has no manners. He tried to take a nip out of my hat yesterday." He groaned. "He didn't." She held it out. "Look at it. You can see the teeth marks." "Lizzy, you promised not to make a pet out of my horse." "What?" "He's falling in love with you." She burst out laughing at his grim pronouncement. "I'm serious," Quinn insisted. "What have you been feeding him?" "I wasn't supposed to?" "Lizzy." "Sugar cubes. He likes them." "You're hopeless, you know that?" "I didn't mean to." He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Sure you didn't. Please remember the cattle are sold as beef. This is a working ranch." "Quinn-" she couldn't resist-"even the pretty little ones? ~ Dee Henderson,

1201:THOU wast all that to me, love, For which my soul did pine: A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine. Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries, "On! on!"—but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast. For, alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o'er! No more—no more—no more— (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar. And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy gray eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams— In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

1202:In Memoriam Paul Celan Lay these words into the dead man's grave next to the almonds and black cherries--tiny skulls and flowering blood-drops, eyes, and Thou, O bitterness that pillows his head. Lay these words on the dead man's eyelids like eyebrights, like medieval trumpet flowers that will flourish, this time, in the shade. Let the beheaded tulips glisten with rain. Lay these words on his drowned eyelids like coins or stars, ancillary eyes. Canopy the swollen sky with sunspots while thunder addresses the ground. Syllable by syllable, clawed and handled, the words have united in grief. It is the ghostly hour of lamentation, the void's turn, mournful and absolute. Lay these words on the dead man's lips like burning tongs, a tongue of flame. A scouring eagle wheels and shrieks. Let God pray to us for this man. ~ Edward Hirsch,

1203:A humble god! You might as well have a toothless wolf! The gods are the gods, ruling thunder and commanding storms, they are the lords of night and day, of fire and ice, the givers of disaster and of triumph. To this day I do not understand why folk become Christians unless it’s simply that the other gods enjoy a joke. I have often suspected that Loki, the trickster god, invented Christianity because it has his wicked stench all over it. I can imagine the gods sitting in Asgard one night, all of them bored and probably drunk, and Loki amuses them with a typical piece of his nonsense, "Let’s invent a carpenter," he suggests, "and tell the fools that he was the son of the only god, that he died and came back to life, that he cured blindness with lumps of clay, and that he walked on water!" Who would believe that nonsense? But the trouble with Loki is that he always takes his jests too far. ~ Bernard Cornwell,

1204:Jen smiled at them, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Do you hear that, Desdemona, last of the witches? I have so named you! Hear me now," Jen yelled into the dark forest, the wind and thunder still rolling around her. "Your time is drawing near! We are coming. Throw back your head in your tiny victory, laugh at our short-lived defeat, but we are coming. The night will be filled with our howls, the ground will shake with the stomping of our feet! We are coming. We are coming for you, Desdemona, and death follows!" Jen lifted her head and let out a howl worthy of an Alpha female. The others joined. And as their howls died down, for a brief moment before the silence took over, they heard howls beyond the earthly realm, howls filled with grief and triumph, pain and fear, anger and love-howls from those caught in the jaws of the In Between. They had heard their females' cries and they had answered. ~ Quinn Loftis,

1205:On the first day of his duel with the bears, Saunders, operating behind his mask of brokers, bought 33,000 shares of Piggly Wiggly, mostly from the short sellers; within a week he had brought the total to 105,000—more than half of the 200,000 shares outstanding. Meanwhile, ventilating his emotions at the cost of tipping his hand, he began running a series of advertisements in which he vigorously and pungently told the readers of Southern and Western newspapers what he thought of Wall Street. “Shall the gambler rule?” he demanded in one of these effusions. “On a white horse he rides. Bluff is his coat of mail and thus shielded is a yellow heart. His helmet is deceit, his spurs clink with treachery, and the hoofbeats of his horse thunder destruction. Shall good business flee? Shall it tremble with fear? Shall it be the loot of the speculator?” On Wall Street, Livermore went on buying Piggly Wiggly. ~ John Brooks,

1206:THE old brown thorn-trees break in two high over Cummen Strand, Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand; Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies, But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyes Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan. The wind has bundled up the clouds high over Knock- narea, And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say. Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat; But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan. The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare, For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air; Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood; But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood Is Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan. ~ William Butler Yeats, Red Hanrahans Song About Ireland ,

1207:Within Their Silent, Perfect Glass Within their silent perfect glass The mirror waters, vast and clear, Reflect the silhouette of rocks, Dark faces brooding on the shore. Within their silent, perfect glass The mirror waters show the sky; Clouds skim across the mirror's face, And dim its surface as they die. Within their silent, perfect glass The mirror waters image storm; They glow with lightning, but the blast Of thunder do not mar their calm. Those mirror waters, as before, Still lie in silence, vast and clear. The mirror me, I mirror them, As true a glass as they I am: And as I turn away I leave The images that gave them form. Dark rocks must menace from the shore, And thunderheads grow large with rain; Lightning must flash above the lake, And I must mirror and pass on, Onward and onward without end. ~ Adam Mickiewicz,

1208:Miriam will never know what kind of dog attacked her, will imagine a Doberman or a German shepherd with snarling, angry teeth despite the fact she bears neither bite marks nor broken skin. It will never cross her mind that the dog was a beagle and that she was knocked over from a surprise more than force. The children of the house she fled will use the incident to convince their parents to keep the dog, which had been on the verge of being given away for its propensity to shit at the slightest hint of thunder it having been sequestered in the garage that night because of a stormy forecast. The family will never know what manner of burglar their fog deflected, will imagine a scruffy, heavy-set man with scars and a limp groping the family jewelery. It will never cross their minds that their intruder was am upper middle-class wife and mother of two who would have had eyes only for their Chinese teakettle. ~ Myla Goldberg,

1209:But even as she gave thanks, she knew that the rain was not enough. She wanted a storm – thunder, wind, a deluge. She wanted it to crash through Ketterdam’s pleasure houses, lifting roofs and tearing doors off their hinges. She wanted it to raise the seas, take hold of every slaving ship, shatter their masts, and smash their hulls against unforgiving shores. I want to call that storm, she thought. And four million kruge might be enough to do it. Enough for her own ship – something small and fierce and laden with firepower. Something like her. She would hunt the slavers and their buyers. They would learn to fear her, and they would know her by her name. The heart is an arrow. It demands aim to land true. She clung to the wall, but it was purpose she grasped at long last, and that carried her upwards. She was not a lynx or a spider or even the Wraith. She was Inej Ghafa, and her future was waiting above. ~ Leigh Bardugo,

1210:What said those two souls communicating through the language of the eyes, more perfect than that of the lips, the language given to the soul in order that sound may not mar the ecstasy of feeling? In such moments, when the thoughts of two happy beings penetrate into each other’s souls through the eyes, the spoken word is halting, rude, and weak—it is as the harsh, slow roar of the thunder compared with the rapidity of the dazzling lightning flash, expressing feelings already recognized, ideas already understood, and if words are made use of it is only because the heart’s desire, dominating all the being and flooding it with happiness, wills that the whole human organism with all its physical and psychical powers give expression to the song of joy that rolls through the soul. To the questioning glance of love, as it flashes out and then conceals itself, speech has no reply; the smile, the kiss, the sigh answer. ~ Jos Rizal,

1211:He told stories to help Two Mothers overcome childish fear. "Now,my son, why do you fear the storm? It is only the warriors of thunder and lightning. When you are tempted to be afraid, remember that God tells the lightning where it may go.Pretend that the noise and the light are from two warriors called Thunder and Lightning. They ride beautiful, swift ponies and carry lightning in their hands.As they race the wind,their ponies' hooves strike the clouds.That is the thunder.When they throw their lightning sticks, it flashes brightly in the sky.When God says 'Enough!' the warriors ride down to the earth, bringing the rain to water their ponies." "Have you ever seen the ponies, Father?" "Once, when I was hunting in the Black Hills, I thought I caught a glimpse of them. But before Wind and I could catch them, they rose again into the sky, taking the thunder and lightning with them to another place. ~ Stephanie Grace Whitson,

1212:High Waving Heather 'Neath Stormy Blasts Bending High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending, Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars, Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending, Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending, Man's spirit away from its drear dungeon sending, Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars. All down the mountain sides wild forests lending One mighty voice to the life-giving wind, Rivers their banks in their jubilee rending, Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending, Wider and deeper their waters extending, Leaving a desolate desert behind. Shining and lowering and swelling and dying, Changing forever from midnight to noon; Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing, Shadows on shadows advancing and flying, Lighning-bright flashes the deep gloom defying, Coming as swiftly and fading as soon. ~ Emily Jane Brontë,

1213:For the gods keep hidden from men the means of life. Else you would easily do work enough in a day to supply you for a full year even without working; soon would you put away your rudder over the smoke, and the fields worked by ox and sturdy mule would run to waste. But Zeus in the anger of his heart hid it, because Prometheus the crafty deceived him; therefore he planned sorrow and mischief against men. He hid fire; but that the noble son of Iapetus stole again for men from Zeus the counsellor in a hollow fennel-stalk, so that Zeus who delights in thunder did not see it. But afterwards Zeus who gathers the clouds said to him in anger: `Son of Iapetus, surpassing all in cunning, you are glad that you have outwitted me and stolen fire -- a great plague to you yourself and to men that shall be. But I will give men as the price for fire an evil thing in which they may all be glad of heart while they embrace their own destruction. ~ Hesiod,

1214:She was made after the time of ribs and mud. By papal decree there were to be no more people born of the ground or from the marrow of bones. All would be created from the propulsions and mounts performed underneath bedsheets- rare exception granted for immaculate conceptions. The mixing pits were sledged and the cutting tables, where ribs were extracted from pigs and goats, were sawed in half. Although the monks were devout and obedient to the thunder of Rome, the wool of their robes was soaked not only by the salt of sweat but also by that of tears. The monks rolled down their heavy sleeves, hid their slaughter knives in the burlap of their scrips, and wiped the hoes clean. They closed the factory down, chained the doors with Vatican-crested locks, and marched off in holy formation. Three lines, their faces staring down in humility, closing their eyes when walking over puddles, avoiding their unshaven reflections. ~ Salvador Plascencia,

1215:After The Storm The air is full of after-thunder freshness, And everything rejoices and revives. With the whole outburst of its purple clusters The lilac drinks the air of paradise. The gutters overflow; the change of weather Makes all you see appear alive and new. Meanwhile the shades of sky are growing lighter, Beyond the blackest cloud the height is blue. An artist's hand, with mastery still greater Wipes dirt and dust off objects in his path. Reality and life, the past and present, Emerge transformed out of his colour-bath. The memory of over half a lifetime Like swiftly passing thunder dies away. The century is no more under wardship: High time to let the future have its say. It is not revolutions and upheavals That clear the road to new and better days, But revelations, lavishness and torments Of someone's soul, inspired and ablaze. ~ Boris Pasternak,

1216:Nurturing energy, forget words and guard it Conquer your mind do non-doing In activity and stillness Know the Source Progenitor There is no thing Whom else do you seek? In constancy It is essential to respond to people In responding to people It is essential not to be confused If you do not become confused Your nature will naturally stabilize When your nature is naturally stabilized Energy naturally returns When energy naturally returns The elixir crystallizes spontaneously Fire and water Pairing in the pot Yin and Yang arise Alternating over and over again Everywhere producing The sound of thunder White clouds assemble on the summit Sweet dew bathes the polar mountain Having drunk the wine of longevity You wander freely Who can know you? Sit and listen to the stringless tune Clearly understanding the mechanism of creation These twenty verses Are a ladder straight to Heaven ~ Lu Tung Pin, The Hundred Character Tablet (Bai Zi Bei) ,

1217:The whole history of the progress of human liberty shows that all concessions yet made to her august claims have been born of earnest struggle... If there is no struggle there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom and yet deprecate agitation are men who want crops without plowing up the ground; they want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. This struggle may be a moral one, or it may be a physical one, and it may be both moral and physical, but it must be a struggle. Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will. Find out just what any people will quietly submit to and you have found out the exact measure of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them, and these will continue till they are resisted with either words or blows, or with both. The limits of tyrants are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress. ~ Frederick Douglass,

1218:Earth and sky, rock and wind, bear witness! By the power of the Swift Sure Hand, I claim this ground and sain it with a name: Bwgan Bwlch! Power of fire I have over it, Power of wind I have over it, Power of thunder I have over it, Power of wrath I have over it, Power of heavens I have over it, Power of earth I have over it, Power of worlds I have over it! As tramples the swan upon the lake, As tramples the horse upon the plain, As tramples the ox upon the meadow, As tramples the boar upon the track, As tramples the forest host of heart and hind, As tramples all quick things upon the earth, I do trample and subdue it, And drive all evil from it! In the name of the Secret One, In the name of the Living One, In the name of the All-Encircling One, In the name of the One True Word, it is Bwgan Bwlch, Let it so remain as long as men survive To breath the name. ~ Stephen R Lawhead,

1219:Instead of of looking at books and pictures about the New Testament I looked at the New Testament. There I found an account, not in the least of a person with his hair parted in the middle or his hands clasped in appeal, but of an extraordinary being with lips of thunder and acts of lurid decision, flinging down tables, casting out devils, passing with wild secrecy of the wind from mountain isolation to a sort of dreadful demagogy; a being who often acted like an angry god--and always like a god. Christ had even a literary style of his own, not to be found, I think, elsewhere; it consists of an almost furious use of the a fortiori. His "how much more" is piled one upon another like castle upon castle in the clouds. The diction used about Christ has been, and perhaps wisely, sweet and submissive. But the diction used by Christ is quite curiously gigantesque; it is full of camels leaping through needles and mountains hurled into the sea. ~ G K Chesterton,

1220:The Sphynx O winged Fiend, who from the Earth And an infernal Viper drew'st thy birth, Thou cam'st, thou cam'st, to bear away, Amidst incessant groans, thy prey, And harass Cadmus' race, Thy frantic pinions did resound, Thy fangs impress'd the ghastly wound, Thou ruthless monster with a virgin's face: What youths from Dirce's fount were borne aloof, While thou didst utter thy discordant song, The furies haunted every roof, And o'er these walls sat Slaughter brooding long. Sure from some God whose breast no mercy knew, Their source impure these horrors drew. From house to house, the cries Of matrons did resound, And wailing maidens rent the skies With frequent shrieks loud as the thunder's burst, Oft as the Sphynx accurst, Some youth, whom in the Theban streets she found, Bore high in air; all glaz'd in wild affright, Till she vanished from their sight. ~ Euripides,

1221:The light was grainy, dusty; it looked like the Milky Way had spread from the top of the sky all down the west, and the tented shapes of the mountains were huge and satin black against it, and the ridgeline trees made a filigree of onyx. The wind had increased but not cooled; the promise of full summer was in it. And when Dr. Barcroft turned from the west to look again at the house, he was hardly surprised to see that it had begun to turn like a wheel upon a vertical axle as the silhouettes of the dancers raced past window after window. It was as if their dancing, the female slide and shuffle, the masculine drum and thunder, propelled the house behind them; it had become a merry-go-round, turning steadily and stately as the music went just a little bit faster, just a little more, and he could tell there were furies in it, whirlwinds and cyclones and hurricanes that Quigley's fiddle barely held in check, that his calling could barely control. ~ Fred Chappell,

1222:Instead of thanking God for my two strong legs that are able to run and jump and climb, I whined about my "thunder thighs" and "thick" ankles. Instead of rejoicing that I have two capable arms that can lift and carry and balance my body, I complained about the flab that hung beneath them. I have been totally and unbelievably ungrateful for everything. Like a completely spoiled brat, I took my healthy body for granted. I criticized it and despised it. With crystal clarity, I know that I do not deserve the good health that God has mysteriously blessed me with. Not only have I been unappreciative of my body and its amazing working parts, I tortured it by overexercising, and I put my entire health at serious risk by starving myself. What on earth was wrong with me? As I watch these kids with their less-than-perfect bodies, I feel so thoroughly ashamed of myself. I mean, how could I have been so stupid and shallow and self-centered? ~ Melody Carlson,

1223:The light was grainy, dusty; it looked like the Milky Way had spread from the top of the sky all down the west, and the tented shapes of the mountains were huge and satin black against it, and the ridgeline trees made a filigree of onyx. The wind had increased but not cooled; the promise of full summer was in it. And when Dr. Barcroft turned from the west to look again at the house, he was hardly surprised to see that it had begun to turn like a wheel upon a vertical axle as the silhouettes of the dancers raced past window after window. It was as if their dancing, the female slide and shuffle, the masculine drum and thunder, propelled the house behind them; it had become a merry-go-round, turning steadily and stately as the music went just a little bit faster, just a little more, and he could tell there were furies in it, whirlwinds and cyclones and hurricanes that Quigley's fiddle barely held in check, that his calling could barely control. ~ Fred Chappell,

1224:If I’d known you were going to spend such a long time in my chambers, I would have been there to entertain you.” Piero smiled, but there was nothing amusing about the way he looked at her--as though he wanted to devour her. Cass found his gaze too intense; she had to look away. Thunder boomed outside the window, and she flinched. “Are you all right?” Piero asked, his hand coming to rest gently on her forearm. “I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Just in pain.” Softly, he touched her face. “You have a fever,” he murmured. “Let me help you back to bed and then I’ll prepare your medicines.” Before Cass could protest, Piero bent down and scooped her into his arms. He headed for the hallway. “You don’t need to carry me.” Cass was blushing furiously. “I’m not an invalid.” “I believe you said something to that effect last night as well.” Even though she refused to look at him, Cass could hear the smile in his voice. “And then you fainted. ~ Fiona Paul,

1225:He racked his brains for a way of making his declaration. Torn all the while between fear of offending and shame at his own faint-heartedness, he wept tears of dejection and desire. Then he made forceful resolutions. He wrote letters, and tore them up; he gave himself a time limit, then extended it. Often he started out with a determination to dare all; but his decisiveness quickly deserted him in Emma's presence [...] Emma, for her part, never questioned herself to find out whether she was in love with him. Love, she believed, must come suddenly, with thunder and lightning, a hurricane from on high that swoops down into your life and turns it topsy-turvy, snatches away your will-power like a leaf, hurls your heart and soul into the abyss. She did not know how on the terrace of a house the rain collects in pools when the gutters are choked; and she would have continued to feel quite safe had she not suddenly discovered a crack in the wall. ~ Gustave Flaubert,

1226:Siege Perilous Long warned of many terrors more severe To scorch him than hell’s engines could awaken, He scanned again, too far to be so near, The fearful seat no man had ever taken. So many other men with older eyes Than his to see with older sight behind them Had known so long their one way to be wise,— Was any other thing to do than mind them? So many a blasting parallel had seared Confusion on his faith,—could he but wonder If he were mad and right, or if he feared God’s fury told in shafted flame and thunder? There fell one day upon his eyes a light Ethereal, and he heard no more men speaking; He saw their shaken heads, but no long sight Was his but for the end that he went seeking. The end he sought was not the end; the crown He won shall unto many still be given. Moreover, there was reason here to frown: No fury thundered, no flame fell from heaven. ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

1227:Late in the afternoon, thunder growling, that same old green pickup rolled in and he saw Jack get out of the truck, beat up Resistol tilted back. A hot jolt scalded Ennis and he was out on the landing pulling the door closed behind him. Jack took the stairs two and two. They seized each other by the shoulders, hugged mightily, squeezing the breath out of each other, saying, son of a bitch, son of a bitch, then, and easily as the right key turns the lock tumblers, their mouths came together, and hard, Jack’s big teeth bringing blood, his hat falling to the floor, stubble rasping, wet saliva welling, and the door opening and Alma looking out for a few seconds at Ennis’s straining shoulders and shutting the door again and still they clinched, pressing chest and groin and thigh and leg together, treading on each other’s toes until they pulled apart to breathe and Ennis, not big on endearments, said what he said to his horses and his daughters, little darlin. ~ Annie Proulx,

1228:The visitor from outer space made a gift to Earth of a new Gospel. In it, Jesus really was a nobody, and a pain in the neck to a lot of people with better connections than he had. He still got to say all the lovely and puzzling things he said in the other Gospels. So the people amused themselves one day by nailing him to a cross and planting the cross in the ground. There couldn’t possibly be any repercussions, the lynchers thought. The reader would have to think that, too, since the new Gospel hammered home again and again what a nobody Jesus was. And then, just before the nobody died, the heavens opened up, and there was thunder and lightning. The voice of God came crashing down. He told the people that he was adopting the bum as his son, giving him the full powers and privileges of The Son of the Creator of the Universe throughout all eternity. God said this: From this moment on, He will punish horribly anybody who torments a bum who has no connections! ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

1229:Workmen's March Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken! Keeping time is power's token. That makes one of many, many, That makes bold, if fear daunts any, That makes small the load and lighter, That makes near the goal and brighter, Till it greets us gained with laughter, And we seek the next one after. Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken! Keeping time is power's token. Marching, marching of few hundreds, No one heeds it, never one dreads; Marching, marching of few thousands, Here and there wakes some to hearing; Marching, marching hundred thousands,All will mark that thunder nearing. Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken! Keeping time is power's token. Let us march all, never weaken Time from Vardö down to Viken, Vinger up to Bergen's region,Let us make one marching legion, Then we'll rout some wrong from Norway, Open wide to right the doorway. ~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson,

1230:Kinsey Keene Your attention, Thomas Rhodes, president of the bank; Coolbaugh Wedon, editor of the Argus; Rev. Peet, pastor of the leading church; A.D. Blood, several times Mayor of Spoon River; And finally all of you, members of the Social Purity Club-Your attention to Cambronne's dying words, Standing with heroic remnant Of Napoleon's guard on Mount Saint Jean At the battle field of Waterloo, When Maitland, the Englishman, called to them: "Surrender, brave Frenchmen!"-There at close of day with the battle hopelessly lost, And hordes of men no longer the army Of the great Napoleon Streamed from the field like ragged strips Of thunder clouds in the storm. Well, that Cambronne said to Maitland Ere the English fire made smooth the brow of the hill Against the sinking light of day Say I to you, and all of you, And to you, O world. And I charge you to carve it Upon my stone. ~ Edgar Lee Masters,

1231:New eyes awaken. I send Love's name into the world with wings And songs grow up around me like a jungle. Choirs of all creatures sing the tunes Your Spirit played in Eden. Zebras and antelopes and birds of paradise Shine on the face of the abyss And I am drunk with the great wilderness Of the sixth day in Genesis. But sound is never half so fair As when that music turns to air And the universe dies of excellence. Sun, moon and stars Fall from their heavenly towers. Joys walk no longer down the blue world's shore. Though fires loiter, lights still fly on the air of the gulf, All fear another wind, another thunder: Then one more voice Snuffs all their flares in one gust. And I go forth with no more wine and no more stars And no more buds and no more Eden And no more animals and no more sea: While God sings by himself in acres of night And walls fall down, that guarded Paradise. ~ Thomas Merton,

1232:The visitor from outer space made a gift to Earth of a new Gospel. In it, Jesus really was a nobody, and a pain in the neck to a lot of people with better connections than he had. He still got to say all the lovely and puzzling things he said in the other Gospels. So the people amused themselves one day by nailing him to a cross and planting the cross in the ground. There couldn't possibly be any repercussions, the lynchers thought. The reader would have to think that, too, since the new Gospel hammered home again and again what a nobody Jesus was. And then, just before the nobody died, the heavens opened up, and there was thunder and lightning. The voice of God came crashing down. He told the people that he was adopting the bum as his son giving him the full powers and privileges of The Son of the Creator of the Universe throughout all eternity. God said this From this moment on, He will punish horribly anybody who torments a bum who has no connections! ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

1233:Blast it! Where is that letter?" Sophia pulled it from her pocket. "I have it here." Sir Reginald's voice lifted with amazament. "You took that from me? When we were-" "Yes," she said, her color high. "I thought you'd sold my jewelry and that the envelope contained the payment. I wanted proof,so I took it." "By kissing me?" Outside, lightning cracked. "You kissed him?" Dougal demanded. "Only once." "Actually, it was twice," Sir Reginald said softly. Dougal punched him, sending the dandy flying into the wall, where he slid to the floor. "B'God, that's a nice one!" Red cried. "MacLean, I'd like to see you in a real mill." "Aye," the earl agreed. "He's got a good solid left." "What do you know about boxing? Red asked rudely. "I've seen every large match for the last-" Thunder crashed as lightning sent shards of light flashing into the great hall. "That's enough," Dougal said firmly, noting Sophia's pale face. ~ Karen Hawkins,

1234:She tried to back away as the duke stalked closer, running a bold stare over the length of her. "What is this?" he growled softly at Doyle, nodding at her. She reacted instinctively to his notice, pulling against her captors' hold in panic. She tried to run. They stopped her. "A gift, Your Grace!" Caleb Doyle exclaimed in forced joviality. As the smugglers dragged her over to him, Warrington studied her like a predatory wolf. "A gift?" he echoed in a musing tone. Caleb thrust her toward him with a cheerful grin. "Aye, sir! A token of our regard, to welcome you back to Cornwall after all this time! A fine young bed warmer for a cold winter's night. Right little beauty, ain't she?" He was silent for a long moment, perusing her intently. The he answered barely audibly, his deep voice reverberated like a distant rumble of thunder drawing closer. "Indeed." Caught in his stare, Kate could not even move. She was lucky she remembered to keep breathing. ~ Gaelen Foley,

1235:Wake Not For The World-Heard Thunder Wake not for the world-heard thunder, Nor the chimes that earthquakes toll; Stars may plot in heaven with planet, Lightning rive the rock of granite, Tempest tread the oakwood under, Fear not you for flesh or soul; Marching, fighting, victory past, Stretch your limbs in peace at last. Stir not for the soldier's drilling, Nor the fever nothing cures; Throb of drum and timbal's rattle Call but men alive to battle, And the fife with death-notes filling Screams for blood--but not for yours. Times enough you bled your best; Sleep on now, and take your rest. Sleep, my lad; the French have landed, London's burning, Windsor's down. Clasp your cloak of earth about you; We must man the ditch without you, March unled and fight short-handed, Charge to fall and swim to drown. Duty, friendship, bravery o'er, Sleep away, lad; wake no more. ~ Alfred Edward Housman,

1236:Where I come from, we are raised to see things in a never-ending cycle. I saw that cycle in the life of the banyan tree. It grows big and tall and wide while providing shelter to those who seek it. Over time, it can grow too big for itself, destroying everything around it. But I’ve also watched it slowly feed its way to new life. Provide roots for the new trees. Seeds for the new flowers. You are a banyan tree because in you I see this story. The beginning and the end of all things. The hope for something to grow, even in shadow.” Shahrzad’s pulse started to rise. The old man’s voice had begun to deepen as he spoke. Had begun to lose some of its raspiness. Had begun to roll like distant thunder. “Be the beginning and the end, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran.” A flare of light burst to life across the way. “Be stronger than everything around you.” The face of the Rajput shone bright in the flickering flame. “Make all our many sacrifices worth it. ~ Ren e Ahdieh,

1237:I've asked Sophia to stay for the night, and she has agreed." Stay? In the same house he was staying in? It had been pure hell trying to sleep before, but now, knowing she was there, under the same roof, her lush body-"No." The word was torn from him. Fiona's gaze narrowed. "Dougal, this is my house-" "And mine," Jack added flatly. Dougal sent him a cutting glare. Fiona sniffed. "If I wish Miss MacFarlane to stay,she'll stay." Sophia lifted her chin. "I'm sorry you're averse to my visit, but I've already accepted your sister's kind invitation. Dougal's jaw clenched. If she stayed, he might not be able to let her go. Damn it all,this was not fair! Outside, the gray sky began to darken again, a rumble of thunder sounding in the distance. Sophia glanced out the window, her face paling yet more. "Not again," Jack muttered. "We're going to float away." "Dougal," his sister snapped, "watch your temper!" "I am," he said through gritted teeth. ~ Karen Hawkins,

1238:A Cattleman's Prayer Now O Lord please lend thine ear, The prayer of the Cattleman to hear; No doubt many prayers to thee seem strange, But won't you bless this cattle range? Bless the round-up year by year And don't forget the growing steer; Water the land with brooks and rills For my cattle that roam a thousand hills. Now, O Lord, won't you be good And give our livestock plenty of food; And to avert a winter's woe Give Italian skies and little snow. Prairie fires won't you please stop, Let thunder roll and water drop, It frightens me to see the smoke, Unless it's stopped, I'll go dead broke. As you, O Lord, our herds beholdWhich represents a sack of goldI think at least five cents per pound Should be the price of beef year round. One more thing and then I'm through, Instead of one calf, give my cows two. I may pray different than some others, but then I've had my say, and now amen. ~ Anonymous Americas,

1239:Not What Was Meant When the Academy of Arts demanded freedom Of artistic expression from narrow-minded bureaucrats There was a howl and a clamour in its immediate vicinity But roaring above everything Came a deafening thunder of applause From beyond the Sector boundary. Freedom! it roared. Freedom for the artists! Freedom all round! Freedom for all! Freedom for the exploiters! Freedom for the warmongers! Freedom for the Ruhr cartels! Freedom for Hitler's generals! Softly, my dear fellows... The Judas kiss for the artists follows Hard on the Judas kiss for the workers. The arsonist with his bottle of petrol Sneaks up grinning to The Academy of Arts. But it was not to embrace him, just To knock the bottle out of his dirty hand that We asked for elbow room. Even the narrowest minds In which peace is harboured Are more welcome to the arts than the art lover Who is also a lover of the art of war. ~ Bertolt Brecht,

1240:How M'Ginnis Went Missing Let us cease our idle chatter, Let the tears bedew our cheek, For a man from Tallangatta Has been missing for a week. Where the roaring flooded Murray Covered all the lower land, There he started in a hurry, With a bottle in his hand. And his fate is hid for ever, But the public seem to think That he slumbered by the river, 'Neath the influence of drink. And they scarcely seem to wonder That the river, wide and deep, Never woke him with its thunder, Never stirred him in his sleep. As the crashing logs came sweeping, And their tumult filled the air, Then M'Ginnis murmured, sleeping, `'Tis a wake in ould Kildare.' So the river rose and found him Sleeping softly by the stream, And the cruel waters drowned him Ere he wakened from his dream. And the blossom-tufted wattle, Blooming brightly on the lea, Saw M'Ginnis and the bottle Going drifting out to sea. ~ Banjo Paterson,

1241:At that time, I well remember whatever could excite - certain accidents of the weather, for instance, were almost dreaded by me, because they woke the being I was always lulling, and stirred up a craving cry I could not satisfy. One night a thunder-storm broke; a sort of hurricane shook us in our beds: the Catholics rose in panic and prayed to their saints. As for me, the tempest took hold of me with tyranny: I was roughly roused and obliged to live. I got up and dressed myself, and creeping outside the basement close by my bed, sat on its ledge, with my feet on the roof of a lower adjoining building. It was wet, it was wild, it was pitch dark. Within the dormitory they gathered round the night-lamp in consternation, praying loud. I could not go in: too resistless was the delight of staying with the wild hour, black and full of thunder, pealing out such an ode as language never delivered to man - too terribly glorious, the spectacle of clouds, split and pierced by white and blinding bolts. ~ Charlotte Bront,

1242:Why, once Jakes went out to cover a revolution in one of the Balkan capitals. He overslept in his carriage, woke up at the wrong station, didn't know any different, got out, went straight to a hotel, and cabled off a thousand-word story about barricades in the streets, flaming churches, machine guns answering the rattle of his typewriter as he wrote. Well they were pretty surprised at his office, getting a story like that from the wrong country, but they trusted Jakes and splashed it in six national newspapers. That day every special in Europe got orders to rush to the new revolution. Everything seemed quiet enough, but it was as much their jobs were worth to say so, with Jakes filing a thousand words of blood and thunder a day. So they chimed in too. Government stocks dropped, financial panic, state of emergency declared, army mobilized, famine, mutiny — and in less than a week there was an honest to god revolution under way, just as jakes had said. There's the power of the press for you. ~ Evelyn Waugh,

1243:The inhabitants, in their darkened rooms, were possessed by that terror which follows in the wake of cataclysms, of deadly upheavals of the earth, against which all human skill and strength are vain. For the same thing happens whenever the established order of things is upset, when security no longer exists, when all those rights usually protected by the law of man or of Nature are at the mercy of unreasoning, savage force. The earthquake crushing a whole nation under falling roofs; the flood let loose, and engulfing in its swirling depths the corpses of drowned peasants, along with dead oxen and beams torn from shattered houses; or the army, covered with glory, murdering those who defend themselves, making prisoners of the rest, pillaging in the name of the Sword, and giving thanks to God to the thunder of cannon—all these are appalling scourges, which destroy all belief in eternal justice, all that confidence we have been taught to feel in the protection of Heaven and the reason of man. ~ Guy de Maupassant,

1244:The weight of clouds can reach quite astonishing proportions. For example, a cumulonimbus cloud, commonly known as the thunder cloud, can contain up to 300,000 tons of water. The fact that a mass of 300,000 tons of water can remain aloft is truly amazing. Attention is drawn to the weight of clouds in other verses of the Qur'an: It is He Who sends out the winds, bringing advance news of His mercy, so that when they have lifted up the heavy clouds, We dispatch them to a dead land and send down water to it, by means of which We bring forth all kinds of fruit... (Qur'an, 7:57) It is He Who shows you the lightning, striking fear and bringing hope; it is He Who heaps up the heavy clouds. (Qur'an, 13:12) At the time when the Qur'an was revealed, of course, it was quite impossible to have any information about the weight of clouds. This information, revealed in the Qur'an, but discovered only recently, is yet another proof that the Qur'an is the word of Allah. ~ Harun Yahya,

1245:In Valleys Of Springs And Rivers "Clunton and Clunbury, Clungunford and Clun, Are the quietest places Under the sun." In valleys of springs and rivers, By Ony and Teme and Clun, The country for easy livers, The quietest under the sun, We still had sorrows to lighten, One could not be always glad, And lads knew trouble at Knighton When I was a Knighton lad. By bridges that Thames runs under, In London, the town built ill, 'Tis sure small matter for wonder If sorrow is with one still. And if as a lad grows older The troubles he bears are more, He carries his griefs on a shoulder That handselled them long before. Where shall one halt to deliver This luggage I'd lief set down? Not Thames, not Teme is the river, Nor London nor Knighton the town: 'Tis a long way further than Knighton, A quieter place than Clun, Where doomsday may thunder and lighten And little 'twill matter to one. ~ Alfred Edward Housman,

1246:Hyperion: We're going to die here today. Thor: Aye...But let it be on our terms. One more time. Our very...Huurggg!...best. (Thor is unable to lift the mjolnir from an alternate universe - Thorr's hammer of unworthiness) Thor: Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! So be it. If this is the end let me not meet is as The Unworthy...but as my father's son. The occasion demands I offer you a drink, Hyperion, but unfortunately, I have none. Hyperion: That's because we drank it all, brother. Thor: Yes. We did.. Nothing left to do now but the other thing. Hyperion: I just want to say... for some time I believed I survived the death of two worlds -- now I know it just took a while to catch up with me. It's a dark thing, what my life became... you have made it better, Odinson. Will you wait for me in Valhalla? Thor: Brother... this day, I will race you there. *Against the bleak nothing of dead space, two gods fell to many. The sun shone one last time. There was lightning, and thunder... and then silence.* ~ Jonathan Hickman,

1247:Sitting on the porch alone, listening to them fixing supper, he felt again the indignation he had felt before, the sense of loss and the aloneness, the utter defenselessness that was each man's lot, sealed up in his bee cell from all the others in the world. But the smelling of boiling vegetables and pork reached him from the inside, the aloneness left him for a while. The warm moist smell promised other people lived and were preparing supper. He listened to the pouring and the thunder rumblings that sounded hollow like they were in a rainbarrel, shared the excitement and the coziness of the buzzing insects that had sought refuge on the porch, and now and then he slapped detachedly at the mosquitoes, making a sharp crack in the pouring buzzing silence. The porch sheltered him from all but the splashes of the drops that hit the floor and their spray touched him with a pleasant chill. And he was secure, because someewhere out beyond the wall of water humanity still existed, and was preparing supper. ~ James Jones,

1248:The new moon is rising the axe of the thunder is broken As never was not since the flood nor yet since the world began The new moon is shining the angels are washing their windows Above the years whose jumble sale goes spinning on below Ask the snail beneath the stone, ask the stone beneath the wall Are there any stars at all Like an eagle in the sky tell me if air is strong In the floating pan pipe victories of the golden harvest Safe in the care of the dear moon The new moon is rising the eyelid of god is approaching The humane train the skating raining travelling voice of certainty The new moon is shining the harmonious hand is now holding lord krishna's ring The eagle's wing the voice of mother everything Ask the snail beneath the stone, ask the stone beneath the wall Are there any stars at all Like an eagle in the sky tell me if air is strong In the floating palaces of the spinning castle May the fire king's daughter bring water to you ~ Robin Williamson,

1249:I. Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast, When oer the dark aether the tempest is swelling, And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed? II. For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath; Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest's fury, Whilst around me, I thought, echoed murmurs of death. III. And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling, O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear; In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling, It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar. IV. On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o'er the mountain Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead: On the mist of the tempest which hangs o'er the fountain, Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head. On the Dark, etc.: without title, 1811; The Fathers Spectre, Rossetti, 1870. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, On The Dark Height of Jura ,

1250:You are 'the best of cut-throats:'--do not start; The phrase is Shakespeare's, and not misapplied:-- War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, Unless her cause by Right be sanctified. If you have acted once a generous part, The World, not the World's masters, will decide, And I shall be delighted to learn who, Save you and yours, have gained by Waterloo? I am no flatterer--you've supped full of flattery: They say you like it too--'tis no great wonder: He whose whole life has been assault and battery, At last may get a little tired of thunder; And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he May like being praised for every lucky blunder; Called 'Saviour of the Nations'--not yet saved, And Europe's Liberator--still enslaved. I've done. Now go and dine from off the plate Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, And send the sentinel before your gate A slice or two from your luxurious meals: He fought, but has not fed so well of late... ~ Lord Byron,

1251:In this cosmic arena, Luo Ji faced not the fancy moves of Chinese sword fighting, resembling dance more than war; nor the flourishes of Western sword fighting, designed to show off the wielder’s skill; but the fatal blows of Japanese kenjutsu. Real Japanese sword fights often ended after a very brief struggle lasting no more than half a second to two seconds. By the time the swords had clashed but once, one side had already fallen in a pool of blood. But before this moment, the opponents stared at each other like statues, sometimes for as long as ten minutes. During this contest, the swordsman’s weapon wasn’t held by the hands, but by his heart. The heart-sword, transformed through the eyes into the gaze, stabbed into the depths of the enemy’s soul. The real winner was determined during this process: In the silence suspended between the two swordsmen, the blades of their spirits parried and stabbed as soundless claps of thunder. Before a single blow was struck, victory, defeat, life, and death had already been decided. ~ Liu Cixin,

1252:Song Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run; Holding up A scent-brimmed cup, Full of summer's fragrance to the summer sun. Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour. Blossoms hold Mines of gold Deep within the farthest heart of each chaliced flower. Oh! To be a cloud Blowing through the blue, Shadowing the mountains, Rushing loudly through Valleys deep Where torrents keep Always their plunging thunder and their misty arch of blue. Oh! To be a wave Splintering on the sand, Drawing back, but leaving Lingeringly the land. Rainbow light Flashes bright Telling tales of coral caves half hid in yellow sand. Soon they die, the flowers; Insects live a day; Clouds dissolve in showers; Only waves at play Last forever. Shall endeavor Make a sea of purpose mightier than we dream to-day? 210 ~ Amy Lowell,

1253:I. Serenity ‘Fear no more the heat o’ the sun’ By William Shakespeare (1564–1616) From ‘Cymbeline’, Act IV. Scene 2 FEAR no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must, 5 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o’ the great, Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: 10 The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; 15 Thou hast finish’d joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 20 Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have; And renownèd be thy grave! ~ William Shakespeare,

1254:I Got So I Could Take His Name 293 I got so I could take his name— Without—Tremendous gain— That Stop-sensation—on my Soul— And Thunder—in the Room— I got so I could walk across That Angle in the floor, Where he turned so, and I turned—how— And all our Sinew tore— I got so I could stir the Box— In which his letters grew Without that forcing, in my breath— As Staples—driven through— Could dimly recollect a Grace— I think, they call it "God"— Renowned to ease Extremity— When Formula, had failed— And shape my Hands— Petition's way, Tho' ignorant of a word That Ordination—utters— My Business, with the Cloud, If any Power behind it, be, Not subject to Despair— It care, in some remoter way, For so minute affair As Misery— Itself, too vast, for interrupting—more— ~ Emily Dickinson,

1255:If, then, to meanest mariners, and renegades and castaways, I shall hereafter ascribe high qualities, though dark; weave round them tragic graces; if even the most mournful, perchance the most abased, among them all, shall at times lift himself to the exalted mounts; if I shall touch that workman's arm with some ethereal light; if I shall spread a rainbow over his disastrous set of sun; then against all mortal critics bear me out in it, thou just Spirit of Equality, which hast spread one royal mantle of humanity over all my kind! Bear me out in it, thou great Democratic God! who didst not refuse to the swart convict Bunyan, the pale poetic pearl; Thou who didst clothe with doubly hammered leaves of finest gold, the stumped and paupered arm of old Cervantes; Thou who didst pick up Andrew Jackson from the pebbles; who didst hurl him upon a war horse; who didst thunder him higher than a throne! Thou who, in all thy mighty, earthly marchings, ever cullest Thy selectest champions from the kingly commons; bear me out in it, O God! ~ Herman Melville,

1256:Through the dark he found his way to the Thing, to its mouth. He touched it softly, and it answered softly, kindly. He shivered and stood still. Then he began to feel it all over, ran his finger-tips along the slippery sides, embraced the carved legs, tried to get some conception of its shape and size, of the space it occupied in primeval night. It was cold and hard, and like nothing else in his black universe. He went back to its mouth, began at one end of the keyboard and felt his way down into the mellow thunder, as far as he could go. He seemed to know that it must be done with the fingers, not with the fists or the feet. He approached this highly artificial instrument through a mere instinct, and coupled himself to it, as if he knew it was to piece him out and make a whole creature of him. After he had tried over all the sounds, he began to finger out passages from things Miss Nellie had been practising, passages that were already his, that lay under the bone of his pinched, conical little skull, definite as animal desires. ~ Willa Cather,

1257:Wild West Poems Noon 2 tall gunmen walking slowly towards each other down Mathew St. And then he grabbed her (for Leiber/Stoller and the Coasters) And then He tied her up And then He lit the fuse to the dynamite And then And then AND THEN ALONG CAME JONES . . William H. Bonney alias Billy the Kid hitches his horse to a parking meter strides through the swing doors into Yates Wine Lodge. Barmaids slowly back away from the counter. Drunks rush out into Charlotte Street. He drinks a glass of Aussie White and strides out, silent as he came. POEM FOR BLACK BART TO LEAVE BEHIND ON A STAGE COACH I hope you ladies ain't afraid Of the wicked man who made this raid But I'm like nature quick and cruel Believe me, gals, I need them jewels. The Daltons riding down Church Street/Bullets ricochet off street signs/windows full of cardboard Walkers bottles shatter/Bob Grat Emmett thunder across traffic lights at red/hoof beats die away clattering down Lord Street. ~ Adrian Henri,

1258:The Tree Of Rivelin The lightning, like an Arab, cross'd The moon's dark path on high, And wild on Rivelin writhed and toss'd The stars and troubled sky, Where lone the tree of ages grew, With branches wide and tall; Ah! who, when such a tempest blew, Could hear his stormy fall? But now the skies, the stars are still, The blue wave sleeps again, And heath and moss, by rock and rill, Are whispering, in disdain, That Rivelin's side is desolate, Her giant in the dust! Beware, O Power! for God is great, O Guilt! for God is just! And boast not, Pride! while millions pine, That wealth secures thy home; The storm that shakes all hearths but thine Is not the storm to come. The tremor of the stars is pale, The dead clod quakes with fear, The worm slinks down, o'er hill and vale, When God in wroth draws near. But if the Upas will not bend Beneath the frown of Heaven, A whisper cometh, which shall rend What thunder hath not riven. ~ Ebenezer Elliott,

1259:Jim Thunder, at seventy-five the youngest of the speakers, is a round brown man of serious demeanor who spoke only in Potawatomi. He began solemnly, but as he warmed to his subject his voice lifted like a breeze in the birch trees and his hands began to tell the story. He became more and more animated, rising to his feet, holding us rapt and silent although almost no one understood a single word. He paused as if reaching the climax of his story and looked out at the audience with a twinkle of expectation. One of the grandmothers behind him covered her mouth in a giggle and his stern face suddenly broke into a smile as big and sweet as a cracked watermelon. He bent over laughing and the grandmas dabbed away tears of laughter, holding their sides, while the rest of us looked on in wonderment. When the laughter subsided, he spoke at last in English: "What will happen to a joke if no one will hear it any more? How lonely those words will be, when their is power gone. Where will they go? Off to join the stories that can never be told again. ~ Robin Wall Kimmerer,

1260:Behold now, let the Dead and Living meet! Across the gulf of Time they still are one. Time hath no power against Identity, though sleep the merciful hath blotted out the tablets of our mind, and with oblivion sealed the sorrows that else would hound us from life to life, stuffing the brain with gathered griefs till it burst in the madness of uttermost despair. Still are they one, for the wrappings of our sleep shall roll away as thunder-clouds before the wind; the frozen voice of the past shall melt in music like mountain snows beneath the sun; and the weeping and the laughter of the lost hours shall be heard once more most sweetly echoing up the cliffs of immeasurable time. Ay, the sleep shall roll away, and the voices shall be heard, when down the completed chain, whereof our each existence is a link, the lightning of the Spirit hath passed to work out the purpose of our being; quickening and fusing those separated days of life, and shaping them to a staff whereon we may safely lean as we wend to our appointed fate. - Ayesha ~ H Rider Haggard,

1261:Come to my arms --- is it eve? is it morn? Is Apollo awake? Is Diana reborn? Are the streams in full song? Do the woods whisper hush Is it the nightingale? Is it the thrush? Is it the smile of the autumn, the blush Of the spring? Is the world full of peace or alarms? Come to my arms, Laylah, come to my arms! Come to my arms, though the hurricane blow. Thunder and summer, or winter and snow, It is one to us, one, while our spirits are curled In the crimson caress: we are fond, we are furled Like lilies away from the war of the world. Are there spells beyond ours? Are there alien charms? Come to my arms, Laylah, come to my arms! Come to my arms! is it life? is it death? Is not all immortality born of your breath? Are not heaven and hell but as handmaids of yours Who are all that enflames, who are all that allures, Who are all that destroys, who are all that endures? I am yours, do I care if it heals me or harms? Come to my arms, Laylah, come to my arms! ~ Aleister Crowley, Independence ,

1262:A Christmas Carol It chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve, I went sighing past the church across the moorland dreary'Oh! never sin and want and woe this earth will leave, And the bells but mock the wailing round, they sing so cheery. How long, O Lord! how long before Thou come again? Still in cellar, and in garret, and on moorland dreary The orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor men toil in vain, Till earth is sick of hope deferred, though Christmas bells be cheery.' Then arose a joyous clamour from the wild-fowl on the mere, Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear bells ringing, And a voice within cried-'Listen!-Christmas carols even here! Though thou be dumb, yet o'er their work the stars and snows are singing. Blind! I live, I love, I reign; and all the nations through With the thunder of my judgments even now are ringing. Do thou fulfil thy work but as yon wild-fowl do, Thou wilt heed no less the wailing, yet hear through it angels singing.' Eversley, 1849. ~ Charles Kingsley,

1263:Four Years At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Said I mournful - Though my life be in its prime, Bare lie my meadows all shorn before their time, O'er my sere woodlands the leaves are turning brown; It is the hot Midsummer, when the hay is down. At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Stood she by the brooklet, young and very fair, With the first white bindweed twisted in her hair Hair that drooped like birch-boughs, all in her simple gown That eve in high Midsummer, when the hay was down. At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Crept she a willing bride close into my breast; Low-piled the thunder-clouds had sunk into the west, Red-eyed the sun out-glared like knight from leaguered town; It was the high Midsummer, and the sun was down. It is Midsummer - all the hay is down, Close to her forehead press I dying eyes, Praying God shield her till we meet in Paradise, Bless her in love's name who was my joy and crown, And I go at Midsummer, when the hay is down. ~ Dinah Maria Mulock Craik,

1264:Directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of these regular summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby; and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale underside of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just wild; and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest-fst! it was as bright as glory and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about, away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down stairs, where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know. ~ Mark Twain,

1265:'Twas dead of the night when I sate in my dwelling, One glimmering lamp was expiring and low,-- Around the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling, They bodingly presaged destruction and woe! 'Twas then that I started, the wild storm was howling, Nought was seen, save the lightning that danced on the sky, Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling, And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by.-- My heart sank within me, unheeded the jar Of the battling clouds on the mountain-tops broke, Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear, This heart hard as iron was stranger to fear, But conscience in low noiseless whispering spoke. Twas then that her form on the whirlwind uprearing, The dark ghost of the murdered Victoria strode, Her right hand a blood reeking dagger was bearing, She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.-- I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me! ... ... ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Fragment, Or The Triumph Of Conscience ,

1266:Independence Come to my arms --- is it eve? is it morn? Is Apollo awake? Is Diana reborn? Are the streams in full song? Do the woods whisper hush Is it the nightingale? Is it the thrush? Is it the smile of the autumn, the blush Of the spring? Is the world full of peace or alarms? Come to my arms, Laylah, come to my arms! Come to my arms, though the hurricane blow. Thunder and summer, or winter and snow, It is one to us, one, while our spirits are curled In the crimson caress: we are fond, we are furled Like lilies away from the war of the world. Are there spells beyond ours? Are there alien charms? Come to my arms, Laylah, come to my arms! Come to my arms! is it life? is it death? Is not all immortality born of your breath? Are not heaven and hell but as handmaids of yours Who are all that enflames, who are all that allures, Who are all that destroys, who are all that endures? I am yours, do I care if it heals me or harms? Come to my arms, Laylah, come to my arms! ~ Aleister Crowley,

1267:Two amber eyes watched from the woods. Blinking against the sunshine, Thunder unsheathed his claws. He smelled tom. Tasting the air, he detected the odd scent of frost and stone. This cat wasn’t from around here. He narrowed his eyes, glimpsing the dark shape of a black cat, and growled as the stranger’s gaze flicked toward the sparrow. “Catch your own prey,” he warned. “That was my prey.” The tom padded forward, his paws clumsily scuffing the sandy earth as he stepped from the trees. Thunder’s pelt pricked. “What do you mean?” “I was stalking it when you caught it.” Unease flashed through Thunder. He hadn’t even realized he was being watched. He needed to be more careful on this new territory. But the tom did not seem angry. Thunder suddenly saw how his pelt hung off his skinny frame, and how his shoulders jutted like twigs beneath his fur. He recognized the look of hunger hollowing the cat’s eyes and glanced guiltily at the sparrow. “I didn’t realize.” Should he give up his catch? What about Thistle and Clover? They were hungry too. “Where are you from? ~ Erin Hunter,

1268:3824A place replete with shadowy shapes, this Mugby Junction in the black hours of the four-and-twenty. Mysterious goods trains, covered with palls and gliding on like vast weird funerals, conveying themselves guiltily away from the presence of the few lighted lamps, as if their freight had come to a secret and unlawful end. Half miles of coal pursuing in a Detective manner, following when they lead, stopping when they stop, backing when they back. Red hot embers showering out upon the ground, down this dark avenue, and down the other, as if torturing fires were being raked clear; concurrently, shrieks and groans and grinds invading the ear, as if the tortured were at the height of their suffering. Iron-barred cages full of cattle jangling by midway, the drooping beasts with horns entangled, eyes frozen with terror, and mouths too: at least they have long icicles (or what seem so) hanging from their lips. Unknown languages in the air, conspiring in red, green, and white characters. An earthquake accompanied with thunder and lightning, going up express to London. ~ Charles Dickens,

1269:The War There is a sound of thunder afar, Storm in the south that darkens the day, Storm of battle and thunder of war, Well, if it do not roll our way. Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! Be not deaf to the sound that warns! Be not gull'd by a despot's plea! Are figs of thistles or grapes of thorns? How should a despot set men free? Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! Let your Reforms for a moment go, Look to your butts and make good aims. Better a rotten borough or so, Than a rotten fleet or a city of flames! Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! Form, be ready to do or die! Form in freedom's name and the Queen's! True, that we have a faithful ally, But only the devil knows what he means! Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1270:This was perhaps most or particularly true for Nelson Aldrich Rockefeller, New York’s governor since 1959, when he decided to get tougher on crime. Rockefeller had been a lifelong Republican, but he had routinely found himself in the liberal wing of his own party. Historically, this had benefited him mightily. He was, for example, one of the few of his party to survive the Lyndon Johnson landslide of 1964. But Rockefeller had ambitions beyond New York. A savvy politician, he increasingly realized that the liberal reputation that had earned him such a following in New York was fast becoming a liability—especially if he hoped to win his party’s nomination for the presidency. Throughout the 1960s he had watched Richard Nixon slowly but surely steal his political thunder across the nation. And so, by the close of the decade, Rockefeller had begun to craft a more conservative and more traditionally Republican image for himself. In 1970, Rockefeller made no bones about the fact that he too would be “tough on crime.” This had suddenly become the platform that could get a man elected. ~ Heather Ann Thompson,

1271:Dark August So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky of this black August. My sister, the sun, broods in her yellow room and won't come out. Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume like a kettle, rivers overrun; still, she will not rise and turn off the rain. She is in her room, fondling old things, my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls like a crash of plates from the sky, she does not come out. Don't you know I love you but am hopeless at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly to love the dark days, the steaming hills, the air with gossiping mosquitoes, and to sip the medicine of bitterness, so that when you emerge, my sister, parting the beads of the rain, with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness, all with not be as it was, but it will be true (you see they will not let me love as I want), because, my sister, then I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones, The black rain, the white hills, when once I loved only my happiness and you. ~ Derek Walcott,

1272:They all stood unwilling on the sandbar, holding to the net. In the eastern sky were the familiar castles and the round towers to which they were used, gray, pink, and blue, growing darker and filling with thunder. Lightning flickered in the sun along their thick walls. But in the west the sun shone with such a violence that in an illumination like a long-prolonged glare of lightning the heavens looked black and white; all color left the world, the goldenness of everything was like a memory, and only heat, a kind of glamor and oppression, lay on their heads. The thick heavy trees on the other side of the river were brushed with mile-long streaks of silver, and a wind touched each man on the forehead. At the same time there was a long roll of thunder that began behind them, came up and down mountains and valleys of air, passed over their heads, and left them listening still. With a small, near noise a mockingbird followed it, the little white bars of its body flashing over the willow trees. 'We are here for a storm now,' Virgil said. 'We will have to stay till it’s over.' ("The Wide Net") ~ Eudora Welty,

1273:Almost he slept again. Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow. Not sorrow, he thought, though when he remembered Seven Girls Waiting and Pink Butterflies and the living, thinking tree ruling kindly its little lake and flowered lawn in the country of sliding stones, something hurt. Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, sang the night wind, throbbing. Not sorrow, Sandwalker thought to himself, hate. The marshmen had killed Flying Feet, who had sometimes out of his plenty given him to eat when he was small. They would kill Bloodyfinger and Leaves-you-can-eat, Sweetmouth and his mother. Sorrow, sing sorrow. Not sorrow, he thought, the wind, the tree. He sat up, listening to convince himself that it was only the sighing of the wind he heard, or perhaps the tree murmuring of better places. Whatever it was—perhaps, indeed, he had been wrong about this lonely, reed-hemmed tree—it was not an angry sound. It was … nothing. The lost wind sighed, but not in words. The leaves around him scarcely trembled. Far overhead and far away thunder boomed. Sorrow, sang many voices. Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow. Loneliness, and the night coming that will never go. ~ Gene Wolfe,

1274:Atheism is an idea. Most often (thank God), it is an idea lived and told with blunt jumbo-crayon clumsiness. Some child of Christianity or Judaism dons an unbelieving Zorro costume and preens about the living room. Behold, a dangerous thinker of thinks! A believer in free-from-any-and-all-goodness! Fear my brainy blade! Put candy in their bucket. Act scared. Don't tell them that they're adorable. Atheism is not an idea we want fleshed out. Atheism incarnate does happen in this reality narrative. But it doesn't rant about Islam's treatment of women as did the (often courageous) atheist Christopher Hitchens. It doesn't thunder words like evil and mean it (as Hitch so often did) when talking about oppressive communist regimes. His costume slipped all the time—and in many of his best moments. Atheism incarnate is nihilism from follicle to toenail. It is morality merely as evolved herd survival instinct (non-bindng, of course, and as easy for us to outgrow as our feathers were). When Hitchens thundered, he stood in the boots of forefathers who knew that all thunder comes from on high. ~ N D Wilson,

1275:CONSTANCE. War! war! no peace! Peace is to me a war. O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame That bloody spoil. Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou Fortune's champion that dost never fight But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety! Thou art perjur'd too, And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou, A ramping fool, to brag and stamp and swear Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave, Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side, Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength, And dost thou now fall over to my foes? Thou wear a lion's hide! Doff it for shame, And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. O that a man should speak those words to me! BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. Thou dar'st not say so, villain, for thy life. BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs. KING JOHN. We like not this: thou dost forget thyself. ~ William Shakespeare,

1276:If we go that way, it seems less like we’ll be shot for trespassing. We can’t be low profile because of your shirt.” “Aquamarine is a wonderful color, and I won’t be made to feel bad for wearing it,” Gansey said. But his voice was a bit thin, and he glanced back at the church again. Just then he looked younger than she’d ever seen him, his eyes narrowed, hair messed up, features unstudied. Young and, strangely enough, afraid. Blue thought: I can’t tell him. I can never tell him. I have to just try to stop it from happening. Then Gansey, suddenly charming again, flipped a hand in the direct of her purple tunic dress. “Lead the way, Eggplant.” She found a stick to poke at the ground for snakes before they set off through the grass. The wind smelled like rain, and the ground rumbled with thunder, but the weather held. The machine in Gansey’s hands blinked red constantly, only flickering to orange when they stepped too far away from the invisible line. “Thanks for coming, Jane,” Gansey said. Blue shot him a dirty look. “You’re welcome, Dick.” He looked pained. “Please don’t. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

1277:Why, once Jakes went out to cover a revolution in one of the Balkan capitals. He overslept in his carriage, woke up at the wrong station, didn’t know any different, got out, went straight to a hotel, and cabled off a thousand word story about barricades in the streets, flaming churches, machine guns answering the rattle of his typewriter as he wrote, a dead child, like a broken doll, spread-eagled in the deserted roadway below his window—you know. “Well they were pretty surprised at his office, getting a story like that from the wrong country, but they trusted Jakes and splashed it in six national newspapers. That day every special in Europe got orders to rush to the new revolution. They arrived in shoals. Everything seemed quiet enough but it was as much as their jobs were worth to say so, with Jakes filing a thousand words of blood and thunder a day. So they chimed in too. Government stocks dropped, financial panic, state of emergency declared, army mobilized, famine, mutiny and in less than a week there was an honest to God revolution under way, just as Jakes had said. There’s the power of the Press for you. ~ Evelyn Waugh,

1278:has your sister already gone, then, Stan?” Stanley’s eyelids fluttered. “We must get on,” he said, taking hold of my arm. “Miss Gibson has a train to catch.” “Oh . . . I see. Well, nice to meet you . . . See you later, Stan.” “You and Eileen Poynter seem on very familiar terms,” I said as we neared the steps down to the Underground. He laughed. “Not jealous, are you?” “No. But why did she think I was your sister?” “Haven’t the foggiest.” “Did you tell her you had a sister?” We were right by the steps, and he stopped and turned to me: “Of course I didn’t tell her I had a sister . . . To be honest, I think she’s a bit touched.” “Oh?” “They have endless problems with her at work . . . getting her to remember stuff. Hopeless. Hopeless, she is.” “But why did she say, ‘See you later’? You said you weren’t going into work tonight.” “It’s a figure of speech, isn’t it? See you later? Gawd blimey, Pearl, it’s like the Spanish Inquisition with you.” He pulled out his handkerchief, pushed back his cap and wiped his brow. He raised his eyes to the overcast sky. “Feels like funder.” “Th . . . thunder.” We stood for a few minutes, ~ Judith Kinghorn,

1279:When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down.   The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes among the bamboos.   Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.   Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.   They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner.   When the rain come they have their holidays.   Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.   Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars are.   Haven't you see how eager they are to get there? Don't you know why they are in such a hurry?   Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms; they have their mother as I have my own. (This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore) ~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Flower-School ,

1280:Vicky turned her face away from her son, towards the sea. She spoke softly, too softly for him to hear. “I only want to remember him.” The thrashing of the rain had dug tiny gutters around her feet. The ground had begun to loosen and Alexander felt it shift. A crack opened between them: twenty-two years of standing in the same spot had undermined the cliff’s foundation. Alexander reached out frantically towards his mother, his eyes wide with fright. He screamed for her to take his hand. Vicky reached out towards her son but when her hand was almost in his, she stopped. Her fear left her and she smiled. She let her hand drop to her side. “For God’s sake, Mother!” Alexander could say nothing more. The wind and rain howled, and blasts of thunder and lightning crashed everywhere, but he had never seen his mother so calm, so beautiful. It was as if she had been waiting for her turn, and it had finally come. The ground gave out under her and he watched his mother disappear with the cliff’s crumbling edge. Her body was never found. All the villagers said that she was finally returned to her beloved Tom, beneath the ocean’s waves. ~ Andrew Davidson,

1281:We need to get to the Chakara Forest,” I said, turning to Kamala. She had not moved once since I sank into that memory. She had not laughed, nor gnashed her awful teeth, claggy with blood. “You changed,” she said slowly. “What?” Kamala whinnied. “You looked different. Shade-play, shadow-play against my eyes. Trust me, false queen”--she paused--“maybe queen, I know shadows.” “What did I look like?” “Like ink-spills and umbra, cloudless nights and winter mornings. Lovely, lovely,” said Kamala in her singsong voice. “But you wore no crown of blackbuck horns and something swirled across your skin. I almost tried to taste it, but I did not want to get swatted by a maybe-deity. Maybe-deity! Maybe-deity! Oh, what a song.” I glanced at my arm, ignoring Kamala as she pranced about in a circle, tossing her head and singing maybe-deity so loudly it might summon thunder. There was nothing on me but the crust of sea-salt and dried ash. I dusted it off. Kamala’s words put flesh on the bones of my hope. Still, that didn’t give me as much comfort as I’d like. I was asking a flesh-eating demon for comfort. ~ Roshani Chokshi,

1282:Gretna Green Last night when I kissed you, My soul caught alight; And oh! how I missed you The rest of the night Till Love in derision Smote sleep with his wings, And gave me in vision Impossible things. A night that was clouded, Long windows asleep; Dark avenues crowded With secrets to keep. A terrace, a lover, A foot on the stair; The waiting was over, The lady was there. What a flight, what a night! The hoofs splashed and pounded. Dark fainted in light And the first bird-notes sounded. You slept on my shoulder, Shy night hid your face; But dawn, bolder, colder, Beheld our embrace. Your lips of vermilion, Your ravishing shape, The flogging postillion, The village agape, The rattle and thunder Of postchaise a-speed . . . My woman, my wonder, My ultimate need! We two matched for mating Came, handclasped, at last, Where the blacksmith was waiting 131 To fetter us fast . . . At the touch of the fetter The dream snapped and fell And I woke to your letter That bade me farewell. ~ Edith Nesbit,

1283:"Turn my back on the world..." the historian repeated softly and slowly, his head moving to face the mage. "Turn my back on the world!" Emotion rarely marred the surface of Astinus's cold voice, but now anger struck the placid calm of his soul like a rock hurled into still water. "I? Turn my back on the world?" Astinus's voice rolled around the library as the thunder had rolled previously. "I am the world, as you well know, old friend! Countless times I have been born! Countless deaths I have died! Every tear shed - mine have flowed! Every drop of blood spilled - mine has drained! Every agony, every joy ever felt has been mine to share! "I sit with my hand on the Sphere of Time, the sphere you made for me, old friend, and I travel the length and breadth of this world chronicling its history. I have committed the blackest deeds! I have made the noblest sacrifices. I am human, elf, and ogre. I am male and female. I have borne children. I have murdered children. I saw you as you were. I see you as you are. If I seem cold and unfeeling, it is because that is how I survive without losing my sanity! My passion goes into my words. ~ Margaret Weis,

1284:A Song for the End of the World" On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net. Happy porpoises jump in the sea, By the rainspout young sparrows are playing And the snake is gold-skinned as it always should be. On the day the world ends Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas, A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn, Vegetable peddlers shout in the street And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island, The voice of a violin lasts in the air And leads into a starry night. And those who expected lightning and thunder Are disappointed. And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps Do not believe it is happening now. As long as the sun and the moon are above, As long as the bumblebee visits a rose, As long as rosy infants are born No one believes it is happening now. Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes: There will be no other end of the world, There will be no other end of the world. ~ Czes aw Mi osz,

1285:The Higher Pantheism The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains,Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns? Is not the Vision He, tho' He be not that which He seems? Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams? Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him? Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the reason why, For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel "I am I"? Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom, Making Him broken gleams and a stifled splendour and gloom. Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meetCloser is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. God is law, say the wise; O soul, and let us rejoice, For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. Law is God, say some; no God at all, says the fool, For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool; And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see; But if we could see and hear, this Vision-were it not He? ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1286:He knew everything. He knew at least a thousand Hungarian folk songs, all the words and tunes, he could handle Gypsies, give them instructions and keep them in order, check their familiarity with the flicker of an eyelid, then win their affection with a lordly, condescending, and yet fraternal-playful sidelong glance, he could call 'acsi' perfectly, shout at the first violin when he didn't strike up Csendesen, csak csendesen quietly enough and the cimbalonist when the padded sticks didn't make the steel strings thunder and rumble sufficiently in Hullamzo Balaton, he could kiss the viola player's pock-marked face, give the double bass a kick, break glasses and mirrors, drink wine, beer and marc brandy for three days on end out of tumblers, smack his lips at the site of cabbage soup and cold pork stew, take ages inspecting his cards (with relish, one eye closed), dance a quick csardas for a whole half-hour, urging and driving himself on to stamp and shout and toss his partner high in the air and catch her, light as a feather, with one arm: so, as I said, he could do everything that raises Man from his animal condition and makes him truly Man. ~ Dezs Kosztol nyi,

1287:A Song On The End Of The World On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net. Happy porpoises jump in the sea, By the rainspout young sparrows are playing And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be. On the day the world ends Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas, A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn, Vegetable peddlers shout in the street And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island, The voice of a violin lasts in the air And leads into a starry night. And those who expected lightning and thunder Are disappointed. And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps Do not believe it is happening now. As long as the sun and the moon are above, As long as the bumblebee visits a rose, As long as rosy infants are born No one believes it is happening now. Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes: No other end of the world will there be, No other end of the world will there be. ~ Czeslaw Milosz,

1288:Ave Adonai [Dedicated to G. M. Marston] Pale as the night that pales In the dawn's pearl-pure pavillion, I wait for thee, with my dove's breast Shuddering, a god its bitter guestHave I not gilded my nails And painted my lips with vermillion ? Am I not wholly stript Of the deeds and thoughts that obscure thee? I wait for thee, my soul distraught With aching for some nameless naught In its most arcane cryptAm I not fit to endure thee? Girded about the paps With a golden girdle of glory, Dost thou wait me, thy slave who am, As a wolf lurks for a strayed white lamb? The chain of the stars snaps, And the deep of night is hoary! Thou whose mouth is a flame With its seven-edged sword proceeding, Come ! I am writhing with despair Like a snake taken in a snare, Moaning thy mystical name Till my tongue is torn and bleeding! Have I not gilded my nails And painted my lips with vermillion? Yea ! thou art I; the deed awakes, Thy lightening strikes; thy thunder breaks Wild as the bride that wails In the bridegroom's plumed pavillion! 21 ~ Aleister Crowley,

1289:Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves, And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm’d The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, And ‘twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire and rifted Jove’s stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck’d up The pine and cedar: graves at my command Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let ‘em forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure, and, when I have required Some heavenly music, which even now I do, To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book. ~ William Shakespeare,

1290:There were formerly horizons within which people lived and thought and mythologized. There are now no more horizons. And with the dissolution of horizons we have experienced and are experiencing collisions, terrific collisions, not only of peoples but also of their mythologies. It is as when dividing panels are withdrawn from between chambers of very hot and very cold airs: there is a rush of these forces together. And so we are right now in an extremely perilous age of thunder, lightning, and hurricanes all around. I think it is improper to become hysterical about it, projecting hatred and blame. It is an inevitable, altogether natural thing that when energies that have never met before come into collision—each bearing its own pride—there should be turbulence. That is just what we are experiencing; and we are riding it: riding it to a new age, a new birth, a totally new condition of mankind—to which no one anywhere alive today can say that he has the key, the answer, the prophecy, to its dawn. Nor is there anyone to condemn here (”Judge not, that you may not be judged!”). What is occurring is completely natural, as are its pains, confusions, and mistakes. ~ Joseph Campbell,

1291:The Union You that have gathered together the sons of all races, And welded them into one, Lifting the torch of your Freedom on hungering faces That sailed to the setting sun; You that have made of mankind in your own proud regions The music of man to be, How should the old earth sing of you, now, as your legions Rise to set all men free? How should the singer that knew the proud vision and loved it, In the days when not all men knew, Gaze through his tears, on the light, now the world has approved it; Or dream, when the dream comes true? How should he sing when the Spirit of Freedom in thunder Speaks, and the wine-press is red; And the sea-winds are loud with the chains that are broken asunder And nations that rise from the dead? Flag of the sky, proud flag of that wide communion, Too mighty for thought to scan; Flag of the many in one, and that last world-union That kingdom of God in man; Ours was a dream, in the night, of that last federation, But yours is the glory unfurled-The marshalled nations and stars that shall make one nation One singing star of the world. ~ Alfred Noyes,

1292:said, 'While the (Kuru) host was shaken by the grandson of Sini in these places (through which he proceeded), the son of Bharadwaja covered him with a dense shower of arrows. The encounter that then took place between Drona and Satwata in the very sight of all the troops was extremely fierce, like that between Vali and Vasava (in days of old). Then Drona pierced the grandson of Sini on the forehead with three beautiful arrows made entirely of iron and resembling' snakes of virulent poison. Thus pierced on the forehead with those straight shafts, Yuyudhana, O king, looked beautiful like a mountain with three summits. The son of Bharadwaja always on the alert for an opportunity, then sped in that battle many other arrows of Satyaki which resembled the roar of Indra's thunder. Then he of Dasarha's race, acquainted with the highest weapons, cut off all those arrows shot from Drona's bow, with two beautifully winged arrows of his. Beholding that lightness of hand (in Satyaki), Drona, O king, smiling the while, suddenly pierced that bull among the Sinis with thirty arrows. Surpassing by his own lightness the lightness of Yuyudhana, Drona, once more, pierced ~ Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa,

1293:The Four Elements. The Fire, Air, Earth and water did contest Which was the strongest, noblest and the best, Who was of greatest use and might'est force; In placide Terms they thought now to discourse, That in due order each her turn should speak; But enmity this amity did break All would be chief, and all scorn'd to be under Whence issu'd winds & rains, lightning & thunder The quaking earth did groan, the Sky lookt black The Fire, the forced Air, in sunder crack; The sea did threat the heav'ns, the heavn's the earth, All looked like a Chaos or new birth: Fire broyled Earth, & scorched Earth it choaked Both by their darings, water so provoked That roaring in it came, and with its source Soon made the Combatants abate their force The rumbling hissing, puffing was so great The worlds confusion, it did seem to threat Till gentle Air, Contention so abated That betwixt hot and cold, she arbitrated The others difference, being less did cease All storms now laid, and they in perfect peace That Fire should first begin, the rest consent, The noblest and most active Element. ~ Anne Bradstreet,

1294:The Hermit AN ATTACK ON BARBERCRAFT [Dedicated to George Cecil Jones] At last an end of all I hoped and feared! Muttered the hermit through his elfin beard. Then what art thou? the evil whisper whirred. I doubt me soerly if the hermit heard. To all God's questions never a word he said, But simply shook his venerable head. God sent all plagues; he laughed and heeded not, Till people certified him insane. But somehow all his fellow-luntaics Began to imitate his silly ticks. And stranger still, their prospects so enlarged That one by one the patients were discharged. God asked him by what right he interfered; He only laughed and into his elfin beard. When God revealed Himself to mortal prayer He gave a fatal opening to Voltaire. Our Hermi had dispensed with Sinai's thunder, But on the other hand he made no blunder; He knew ( no doubt) that any axiom Would furnish bricks to build some Donkeydom. But!-all who urged that hermit to confess Caught the infection of his happiness. I would it were my fate to dree his weird; 76 I think that I will grow an elfin beard. ~ Aleister Crowley,

1295:This green flowery rock-built earth, the trees, the mountains, rivers, many-sounding seas;—that great deep sea of azure that swims overhead; the winds sweeping through it; the black cloud fashioning itself together, now pouring out fire, now hail and rain; what is it? Ay, what? At bottom we do not yet know; we can never know at all. It is not by our superior insight that we escape the difficulty; it is by our superior levity, our inattention, our want of insight. It is by not thinking that we cease to wonder at it. Hardened round us, encasing wholly every notion we form, is a wrappage of traditions, hearsays, mere words. We call that fire of the black thunder-cloud "electricity," and lecture learnedly about it, and grind the like of it out of glass and silk: but what is it? What made it? Whence comes it? Whither goes it? Science has done much for us; but it is a poor science that would hide from us the great deep sacred infinitude of Nescience, whither we can never penetrate, on which all science swims as a mere superficial film. This world, after all our science and sciences, is still a miracle; wonderful, inscrutable, magical and more, to whosoever will think of it. ~ Thomas Carlyle,

1296:When psalms surprise me with their music And antiphons turn to rum The Spirit sings: the bottom drops out of my soul. And from the center of my cellar, Love, louder than thunder Opens a heaven of naked air. New eyes awaken. I send Love's name into the world with wings And songs grow up around me like a jungle. Choirs of all creatures sing the tunes Your Spirit played in Eden. Zebras and antelopes and birds of paradise Shine on the face of the abyss And I am drunk with the great wilderness Of the sixth day in Genesis. But sound is never half so fair As when that music turns to air And the universe dies of excellence. Sun, moon and stars Fall from their heavenly towers. Joys walk no longer down the blue world's shore. Though fires loiter, lights still fly on the air of the gulf, All fear another wind, another thunder: Then one more voice Snuffs all their flares in one gust. And I go forth with no more wine and no more stars And no more buds and no more Eden And no more animals and no more sea: While God sings by himself in acres of night And walls fall down, that guarded Paradise. [1499.jpg] -- from Selected Poems of Thomas Merton, by Thomas Merton ~ Thomas Merton, A Psalm ,

1297:It was a vast old religion, greater than anything we know: more starkly and nakedly religious. There is no God, no conception of a god. All is god. But it is not the pantheism we are accustomed to, which expresses itself as "God is everywhere, God is everything." In the oldest religion, everything was alive, not supernaturally but naturally alive. There were only deeper and deeper streams of life, vibrations of life more and more vast. So rocks were alive, but a mountain had a deeper, vaster life than a rock, and it was much harder for a man to bring his spirit, or his energy, into contact with the life of a mountain, and so draw strength from the mountain, as from a great standing well of life, than it was to come into contact with the rock. And he had to put forth a great religious effort. For the whole life-effort of man was to get his life into direct contact with the elemental life of the cosmos, mountain-life, cloud-life, thunder-life, air-life, earth-life, sun-life. To come into the immediate felt contact, and so derive energy, power, and a dark sort of joy. This effort into sheer naked contact, without an intermediary or mediator, is the root meaning of religion... ~ D H Lawrence,

1298:Religion is the outgrowth of many ages of spiritual hunger, when the soul of the primitive man, finding itself insufficient, turned in awe to the immensity of Nature, in whose endless pageantry it saw a power far greater than itself. The savage turned to the winds and found in them something superior to himself. He trembled in fear at the voice of the thunder; fell prostrate in terror as great storms swept through the primitive world and volcanic craters belched forth red-hot stones and ashes. He offered sacrifice tot he gods of the air that they should spare him; he cried from the tops of the mountains and offered incense to the stars. He could not find God anywhere, so offered sacrifice to Him everywhere. He saw his crops burn for lack of water, his children sicken about him. His hopes were dashed to the ground by an unknown, unnamed thing which, though he could not understand, was the determining factor in every thought and action of his life. This was undoubtedly the origin of religion as man knows it. We remember the words of Pope: "Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears Him in the wind." ~ Manly P Hall, What the Ancient Wisdom Expects of Its Disciples,

1299:Coming,” he cried when the rapping began again, on the heels of a distant roll of thunder, and in the instant before he reached for the doorknob, he felt with utter certainty, as if all of this were indeed merely something revisited, rehearsed, recalled, that he would not return—not to the living room behind him or the narrow stairs or the small rooms where his wife and his children slept. This was the culmination, then, this odd darkness, this familiar dream, of the day that had begun with the tugging of the wind at his eaves; this was the simple and terrible meaning, after all, of the pain in his arm, the weight on his heart. Here now and at last, and too soon—as it had come to his brother’s heart too soon—the utter darkness, the black street, wind rain and sea and some glimpse, in his final fall, of the damp room (odor of salt, odor of peat) where in another darkness he had been conceived. An instant so close—in its familiarity, in its blackness, in the cry of the wind—to everything he had been told as a child would attend his last moment (he would hear the banshee, he would open the door, he would see the black coach, wet with rain), that he felt both amused and terrified. ~ Alice McDermott,

1300:the rhythm which was barely intricate to most ears in the commons was to him painful because it was timed to the processes of his body, to jar and strike against them…and she was surprised he had held up this long. “All right, Cord, to be lord of this black barrack, Tarik’s, you need more than jackal lore, or a belly full of murder and jelly knees. Open your mouth and your hands. To understand power, use your wit, please. Ambition like a liquid ruby stains your brain, birthed in the cervixed will to kill, swung in the arc of death’s again, you name yourself victim each time you fill with swill the skull’s cup lipping murder. It predicts your fingers’ movement toward the blade long laid against the leather sheath cord-fixed to pick the plan your paling fingers made; you stayed in safety, missing worlds of wonder, under the lithe hiss of the personafix inflicting false memories to make them blunder while thunder cracks the change of Tarik. You stick pins in peaches, place your strange blade, ranged with a grooved tooth, while the long and strong lines of my meaning make your mind change from fulgent to frangent. Now you hear the wrong cord-song, to instruct you. Assassin, pass in… ~ Samuel R Delany,

1301:Have you ever watched a storm approaching on a hot summer’s day? It’s especially spectacular in the mountains. At first there’s nothing to see, but you feel a sort of weariness that tells you something is in the air. Then you hear thunder - just a rumble here and there- you can’t quite tell where it is coming from. All of a sudden, the mountains seem strangely near. There isn't a breath of wind, yet dense clouds pile up in the sky. And now the mountains have almost vanished behind a wall of haze. Clouds rush in from all sides, but still there’s no wind. There’s more thunder now, and everything around looks eir and menacing. You wait and wait. And then, suddenly, it erupts. At first it is almost a release. The storm descends into the valley. There’s thunder and lightning everywhere. The rain clatters down in huge drops. The storm is trapped in the narrow cleft of the valley and thunderclaps echo and reverberate off the steep mountain sides. The wind buffets you from every angle. And when the storm finally moves away, leaving in its place a clear, still, starlit night, you can hardly remember where those thunderclouds were, let alone which thunderclap belonged to which flash of lightning. ~ E H Gombrich,

1302:Lillian felt her pulse begin to thunder, her breath mingling in rapid puffs with his. She remembered the hard planes of his body brushing lightly over hers as they had made love, the consummate fit between them, the sliding flex of muscle and sinew beneath her hands. Her skin tingled with the memory of his touch, and the clever explorations of his mouth and fingers that had reduced her to shivering need. No wonder he was so cool and cerebral during the day— he saved all his sensuality for bedtime. Stirred by his closeness, she caught at his wrists. There was still much they had to discuss… issues too important for either of them to ignore. “Marcus,” she said breathlessly, “don’t. Not just now. It only muddles things further, and—” “For me it makes everything clear.” His hands slid to either side of her face, cradling her cheeks with yearning gentleness. His eyes were so much darker than her own, with only the faintest glimmer of deepest amber to betray that they were not black but brown. “Kiss me,” he whispered, and his mouth found hers, catching at her top lip and then the lower, in nuzzling half-open caresses that sent rich quivers of response all the way down to her toes. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

1303:The Exorcists And I solemnly swear on the chill of secrecy that I know you not, this room never, the swollen dress I wear, nor the anonymous spoons that free me, nor this calendar nor the pulse we pare and cover. For all these present, before that wandering ghost, that yellow moth of my summer bed, I say: this small event is not. So I prepare, am dosed in ether and will not cry what stays unsaid. I was brown with August, the clapping waves at my thighs and a storm riding into the cove. We swam while the others beached and burst for their boarded huts, their hale cries shouting back to us and the hollow slam of the dory against the float. Black arms of thunder strapped upon us, squalled out, we breathed in rain and stroked past the boat. We thrashed for shore as if we were trapped in green and that suddenly inadequate stain of lightning belling around our skin. Bodies in air we raced for the empty lobsterman-shack. It was yellow inside, the sound of the underwing of the sun. I swear, I most solemnly swear, on all the bric-a-brac of summer loves, I know you not. ~ Anne Sexton,

1304:AN ATTACK ON BARBERCRAFT [Dedicated to George Cecil Jones] At last an end of all I hoped and feared! Muttered the hermit through his elfin beard. Then what art thou? the evil whisper whirred. I doubt me soerly if the hermit heard. To all God's questions never a word he said, But simply shook his venerable head. God sent all plagues; he laughed and heeded not, Till people certified him insane. But somehow all his fellow-luntaics Began to imitate his silly ticks. And stranger still, their prospects so enlarged That one by one the patients were discharged. God asked him by what right he interfered; He only laughed and into his elfin beard. When God revealed Himself to mortal prayer He gave a fatal opening to Voltaire. Our Hermi had dispensed with Sinai's thunder, But on the other hand he made no blunder; He knew ( no doubt) that any axiom Would furnish bricks to build some Donkeydom. But!-all who urged that hermit to confess Caught the infection of his happiness. I would it were my fate to dree his weird; I think that I will grow an elfin beard. ~ Aleister Crowley, The Hermit ,

1305:Rallying Song For Freedom In The North To Dishonored by the higher, but loved by all the low,Say, is it not the pathway that the new has to go? By those who ought to guard it betrayed, oh yes, betrayed,Say, is it not thus truth ever progress has made? Some summer day beginning, a murmur in the grain, It grows to be a roaring through the forests amain, Until the sea shall bear it with thunder-trumpets' tone, Where nothing, nothing's heard but it alone, it alone. With Northern allies warring we take the Northern For God and for our freedom-is the watchword we bring. That God, who gave us country and language, and all, We find Him in our doing, if we hear and heed His call. That doing we will forward, we many, although weak, 'Gainst all in fearless fighting, who the truth will not seek:Some summer day beginning, a murmur in the grain, It goes now as a roaring through the forests amain. 'T will grow to be a storm ere men think that this can be, With voice of thunder sweeping o'er the infinite sea. What nation God's call follows, earth's greatest power shall show, And carry all before it, though it high stand or low. ~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson,

1306:The Home Of Peace Trust and treachery, wisdom, folly, Madness, mirth and melancholy, Love and hatred, thrift and pillage, All are housed in every village. And in such a world’s mixed being, Where may peace, from ruin fleeing, Find fit shelter and inherit All the calm of her own merit? In a bark of gentle motion Sailing on the summer ocean? There worst war the tempest wages, And the hungry whirlpool rages. In some lonely new-world bower Hidden like a forest flower? There, too, there, to fray the stranger Stalks the wild-eyed savage, danger! In some Alpine cot, by fountains Flowing from snow-shining mountains? There the avalanches thunder, Crushing all that lieth under! In some hermit-tent, pitched lowly Mid the tombs of prophets holy? There to harry and annoy her Roams the infidel destroyer. In palatial chambers gilded, Guarded round with towers high-builded? Change may enter these to-morrow, And with change may enter sorrow. Find, O peace, thy home of beauty In the steadfast heart of duty, Dwelling ever there, and seeing God through every phase of being 184 ~ Charles Harpur,

1307:she spat a single word. A long, guttural, twisting word that evoked frozen Germanic winters. The trigger to the spell she’d been weaving for days. The toxic miasma above our heads exploded with a peal of thunder and her spite-fueled power crashed down on Cesar, one man alone in a torrent of death. The paper cut on his bicep ripped open, as if someone had taken pliers to his skin and given it one brutal, wrenching tug. Blood gushed from the wound as he screamed, flowing faster than it should have, and even faster by the second. He collapsed to his knees, shrieking, and a scarlet torrent blasted from the wound like the spray from a fire hose and splashed across the arcade wall. His skin turned ashen and taut, his fingers and toes curling, crumpling. Bones cracked as his limbs folded in on themselves and the flesh on his skull stretched taut like a mummified corpse. Jennifer’s death curse slowly crushed his body like a juice box, squeezing every drop of blood from every last ragged vein. What collapsed to the floor when the spell was done, gray and bloodless and small as a child, didn’t look human anymore. “That’s what you get for fuckin’ with a witch,” Jennifer said. “My momma taught me that trick. ~ Craig Schaefer,

1308:In March 1994, Putin attended a European Union event in Hamburg that included a speech by Estonian president Lennart Meri. Estonia, like the two other Baltic republics, was annexed by the Soviet Union at the start of World War II, then lost to the Germans, to be retaken by the Soviets in 1944. The three Baltic states were the last to be included in the Soviet empire and the first to emerge from it—in no small part because they had a population that still remembered a time before the Soviets. Meri, Estonia’s first democratically elected leader in half a century, had been active in the anti-Soviet liberation movement. Now, speaking in Hamburg, he referred to the Soviet Union as “occupiers.” At this point Putin, who had been sitting in the audience among Russian diplomats, rose and left the room. “It looked very impressive,” recalled a St. Petersburg colleague who would go on to run the Russian federal election commission under President Putin. “The meeting was held in Knights’ Hall, which has ten-meter-tall ceilings and a marble floor, and as he walked, in total silence, each step of his echoed under the ceiling. To top it all off, the huge cast-iron door slammed shut behind him with deafening thunder. ~ Masha Gessen,

1309:The lamb, having survived the storm unharmed and no longer afraid, came up to Jesus and put its mouth to his lips, there was no sniffing, one touch was all that was needed. Jesus opened his eyes, saw the lamb, then the livid sky like a black hand blocking whatever light remained. The olive tree still burned. His bones ached when he tried to move, but at least he was in one piece, if that can be said of a body so fragile that it takes only a clap of thunder to knock it to the ground. He sat up with some effort and reassured himself, more by touch than by sight, that he was neither burned nor paralyzed, none of his bones were broken, and apart from a loud buzzing in his head as insistent as the drone of a trumpet, he was all right. He drew the lamb to him and said, Don’t be afraid, He only wanted to show you that you would have been dead by now if that was His will, and to show me that it was not I who saved your life but He. One last rumble of thunder slowly tore the air like a sigh, while below, the white patch of the flock seemed a beckoning oasis. Struggling to overcome his weakness, Jesus descended the slope. The lamb, kept on its cord simply as a precaution, trotted at his side like a little dog. ~ Jos Saramago,

1310:How long Archibald slept he could not have said. He woke some hours later with a vague feeling that a thunderstorm of unusual violence had broken out in his immediate neighborhood. But this, he realized as the mists of slumber cleared away, was an error. The noise which had disturbed him was not thunder but the sound of someone snoring. Snoring like the dickens. The walls seemed to be vibrating like the deck of an ocean liner.... His spirit was not so completely broken as to make him lie supinely down beneath that snoring. The sound filled him, as snoring fills every right-thinking man, with a seething resentment and a passionate yearning for justice, and he climbed out of bed with the intention of taking the proper steps through the recognized channels. It is the custom nowadays to disparage the educational methods of the English public school and to maintain that they are not practical and of a kind to fit the growing boy for the problems of afterlife. But you do learn one thing at a public school, and that is how to act when somebody starts snoring. You jolly well grab a cake of soap and pop in and stuff it down the blighter's throat. And this is what Archibald proposed - God willing - to do. ~ P G Wodehouse,

1311:[Loki] was beautiful, that was always affirmed, but his beauty was hard to fix or to see, for he was always glimmering, flickering, melting, mixing, he was the shape of a shapeless flame, he was the eddying thread of needle-shapes in the shapeless mass of the waterfall. He was the invisible wind that hurried the clouds in billows and ribbons...He was amused and dangerous, neither good nor evil. Thor was the classroom bully raised to the scale of growling thunder and whipping rain. Odin was Power, was in power. Ungraspable Loki flamed amazement and pleased himself. The gods needed him because he was clever, because he solved problems. When they needed to break bargains they rashly made, mostly with giants, Loki showed them the way out. He was the god of endings. He provided resolutions for stories -- if he chose to. The endings he made often led to more problems. There are no altars to Loki, no standing stones, he had no cult. In myths he was always the third of the trio, Odin, Hodur, Loki. In myths, the most important comes first of three. But in fairy tales, and folklore, where these three gods also play their parts, the rule of three is different; the important player is the third, the *youngest* son, Loki. ~ A S Byatt,

1312:My name is Kvothe, pronounced nearly the same as “Quothe.” Names are important as they tell you a great deal about a person. I’ve had more names than anyone has a right to. The Adem call me Maedre. Which, depending on how it’s spoken, can mean “The Flame,” “The Thunder,” or “The Broken Tree.” “The Flame” is obvious if you’ve ever seen me. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. I keep it short but it’s unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire. “The Thunder” I attribute to a strong baritone and a great deal of stage training at an early age. I’ve never thought of “The Broken Tree” as very significant. Although in retrospect I suppose it could be considered at least partially prophetic. My first mentor called me E’lir because I was clever and I knew it. My first real lover called me Dulator because she liked the sound of it. I have been called Shadicar, Lightfinger, and Six-String. I have been called Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe the Arcane, and Kvothe Kingkiller. I have earned those names. Bought and paid for them. But I was brought up as Kvothe. My father once told me it meant “to know. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

1313:The Call Out of the nothingness of sleep, The slow dreams of Eternity, There was a thunder on the deep: I came, because you called to me. I broke the Night's primeval bars, I dared the old abysmal curse, And flashed through ranks of frightened stars Suddenly on the universe! The eternal silences were broken; Hell became Heaven as I passed. -- What shall I give you as a token, A sign that we have met, at last? I'll break and forge the stars anew, Shatter the heavens with a song; Immortal in my love for you, Because I love you, very strong. Your mouth shall mock the old and wise, Your laugh shall fill the world with flame, I'll write upon the shrinking skies The scarlet splendour of your name, Till Heaven cracks, and Hell thereunder Dies in her ultimate mad fire, And darkness falls, with scornful thunder, On dreams of men and men's desire. Then only in the empty spaces, Death, walking very silently, Shall fear the glory of our faces Through all the dark infinity. So, clothed about with perfect love, The eternal end shall find us one, Alone above the Night, above The dust of the dead gods, alone. ~ Rupert Brooke,

1314:The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains -- Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns? Is not the Vision He? tho' He be not that which He seems? Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams? Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him? Dark is the world to thee: thyself art the reason why; For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel 'I am I'? Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom, Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendour and gloom. Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet -- Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. God is law, say the wise; O Soul, and let us rejoice, For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. Law is God, say some: no God at all, says the fool; For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool; And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see; But if we could see and hear, this Vision -- were it not He? [2652.jpg] -- from The Longing in Between: Sacred Poetry from Around the World (A Poetry Chaikhana Anthology), Edited by Ivan M. Granger ~ Alfred Tennyson, The Higher Pantheism ,

1315:The Journey Of A Poem Compared To All The Sad Variety Of Travel A poem moves forward, Like the passages and percussions of trains in progress A pattern of recurrence, a hammer of repetetiveoccurrence a slow less and less heard low thunder under all passengers Steel sounds tripping and tripled and Grinding, revolving, gripping, turning, and returning as the flung carpet of the wide countryside spreads out on each side in billows And in isolation, rolled out, white house, red barn, squat silo, Pasture, hill, meadow and woodland pasture And the striped poles step fast past the train windows Second after second takes snapshots, clicking, Into the dangled boxes of glinting windows Snapshots and selections, rejections, at angles, of shadows A small town: a shop's sign - GARAGE, and then white gates Where waiting cars wait with the unrest of trembling Breathing hard and idling, until the slow~descent Of the red cones of sunset: a dead march: a slow tread and heavy Of the slowed horses of Apollo - Until the slowed horses of Apollo go over the horizon And all things are parked, slowly or willingly, into the customary or at random places. ~ Delmore Schwartz,

1316:Improvisations: Light And Snow: 12 How many times have we been interrupted Just as I was about to make up a story for you! One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly Lighting his green lantern among the boughs of a fir-tree. Marvellous! Marvellous! He is making for himself A little tent of light in the darkness! And one time it was because we saw a lilac lightning flash Run wrinkling into the blue top of the mountain, — We heard boulders of thunder rolling down upon us And the plat-plat of drops on the window, And we ran to watch the rain Charging in wavering clouds across the long grass of the field! Or at other times it was because we saw a star Slipping easily out of the sky and falling, far off, Among pine-dark hills; Or because we found a crimson eft Darting in the cold grass! These things interrupted us and left us wondering; And the stories, whatever they might have been, Were never told. A fairy, binding a daisy down and laughing? A golden-haired princess caught in a cobweb? A love-story of long ago? Some day, just as we are beginning again, Just as we blow the first sweet note, Death itself will interrupt us. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken,

1317:Antwerp To Ghent We are upon the Scheldt. We know we move Because there is a floating at our eyes Whatso they seek; and because all the things Which on our outset were distinct and large Are smaller and much weaker and quite grey, And at last gone from us. No motion else. We are upon the road. The thin swift moon Runs with the running clouds that are the sky, And with the running water runs—at whiles Weak 'neath the film and heavy growth of reeds. The country swims with motion. Time itself Is consciously beside us, and perceived. Our speed is such the sparks our engine leaves Are burning after the whole train has passed. The darkness is a tumult. We tear on, The roll behind us and the cry before, Constantly, in a lull of intense speed And thunder. Any other sound is known Merely by sight. The shrubs, the trees your eye Scans for their growth, are far along in haze. The sky has lost its clouds, and lies away Oppressively at calm: the moon has failed: Our speed has set the wind against us. Now Our engine's heat is fiercer, and flings up Great glares alongside. Wind and steam and speed And clamour and the night. We are in Ghent. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

1318:Solitary Swedish Houses" A mix-max of black spruce and smoking moonbeams. Here’s the croft lying low and not a sign of life. Till the morning dew murmurs and an old man opens – with a shaky hand – his window and lets out an owl. Further off, the new building stands steaming with the laundry butterfly fluttering at the corner in the middle of a dying wood where the mouldering reads through spectacles of sap the proceedings of the bark-drillers. Summer with flaxen-haired rain or one solitary thunder-cloud above a barking dog. The seed is kicking inside the earth. Agitated voices, faces fly in the telephone wires on stunted rapid wings across the moorland miles. The house on an island in the river brooding on its stony foundations. Perpetual smoke – they’re burning the forest’s secret papers. The rain wheels in the sky. The light coils in the river. Houses on the slope supervise the waterfall’s white oxen. Autumn with a gang of starlings holding dawn in check. The people move stiffly in the lamplight’s theatre. Let them feel without alarm the camouflaged wings and God’s energy coiled up in the dark. ~ Tomas Transtr mer,

1319:In Everything I Seek To Grasp... In everything I seek to grasp The fundamental: The daily choice, the daily task, The sentimental. To plumb the essence of the past, The first foundations, The crux, the roots, the inmost hearts, The explanations. And, puzzling out the weave of fate, Events observer, To live, feel, love and meditate And to discover. Oh, if my skill did but suffice After a fashion, In eight lines I'd anatomize The parts of passion. I'd write of sins, forbidden fruit, Of chance-seized shadows; Of hasty flight and hot pursuit, Of palms, of elbows. Define its laws and origin In terms judicial, Repeat the names it glories in, And the initials. I'd sinews strain my verse to shape Like a trim garden: The limes should blossom down the nape, A double cordon. My verse should breathe the fresh-clipped hedge, Roses and meadows And mint and new-mown hay and sedge, The thunder's bellows. 74 As Chopin once in his etudes Miraculously conjured Parks, groves, graves and solitudesA living wonder. The moment of achievement caught Twixt sport and torment… A singing bowstring shuddering taut, A stubborn bow bent. ~ Boris Pasternak,

1320:I sware unto you my furtherance if I prevailed. But now is mine army passed away as wax wasteth before the fire, and I wait the dark ferryman who tarrieth for no man. Yet, since never have I wrote mine obligations in sandy but in marble memories, and since victory is mine, receive these gifts: and first thou, O Brandoch Daha, my sword, since before thou wast of years eighteen thou wast accounted the mightiest among men-at-arms. Mightily may it avail thee, as me in time gone by. And unto thee, O Spitfire, I give this cloak. Old it is, yet may it stand thee in good stead, since this virtue it hath that he who weareth it shall not fall alive into the hand of his enemies. Wear it for my sake. But unto thee, O Juss, give I no gift, for rich thou art of all good gifts: only my good will give I unto thee, ere earth gape for me." ... So they fared back to the spy-fortalice, and night came down on the hills. A great wind moaning out of the hueless west tore the clouds as a ragged garment, revealing the lonely moon that fled naked betwixt them. As the Demons looked backward in the moonlight to where Zeldornius stood gazing on the dead, a noise as of thunder made the firm land tremble and drowned the howling of the wind. And they beheld how earth gaped for Zeldornius. ~ E R Eddison,

1321:The Traveller To Archibald MacLeish The afternoon with heavy hours Lies vacant on the wanderer's sight And sunset waits whose cloudy towers Expect the legions of the night Till sullen thunder from the cave Of twilight with deliberate swell Whispers the air his darkening slave To loose the nether bolts of hell To crush the battlements of cloud The wall of light around the West So that the swarming dark will crowd The traveller upon his quest And all the air with heavy hours Sinks on the wanderer's dull sight And the thick dark whose hidden towers Menace his travel to the night Rolls forward, backward hill to hill Until the seeker knows not where Beyond the shade of Peachers' Mill In the burnt meadow, with colourless hair The secret ones around a stone Their lips withdrawn in meet surprise Lie still, being naught but bone With naught but space within their eyes Until bewildered by the road And half-forgetful of his quest The wanderer with such a load Of breathing, being too late a guest Turns back, so near the secret stone, Falls down breathless at last and blind, 104 And a dark shift within the bone Brings him the end he could not find. ~ Allen Tate,

1322:Encore The singer stood in a blaze of light, And fronted the flowery throng; Her lips parted with her greeting smile, Her soul soared out in her song. Now hovering like an imprisoned bird With is plainings thrilling nigh, Then faintly sweet, as the reapers hear A lark afar in the sky; And forth like thunder the praises broke, And the singer bowed and smiled, And flowers fell fast in a scented storm-But she was not to be wiled. 'Shall I throw my gifts to this fickle throng?' She thought with a bitter sigh. 'What do they care for my simple song?' As she courtesied a glad good-by. The singer sat in her lonely room, As the stars peeped out of the haze, And her voice poured forth in its sweetest gush, Though none was beside to praise-Till she saw a form to her window creep And crouch by its misty pane,-An old dame wept at the wondrous song That gave back her youth again! The singer stirred not, nor made a sign That she saw where the listener stood, But once and again she raised her voice And poured out its golden flood, And only ceased when the minster bells Shook out their evening clang-Then one thanked God for the song she heard, And one for the song she sang. ~ Anonymous Americas,

1323:In fairy tales, monsters exist to be a manifestation of something that we need to understand, not only a problem we need to overcome, but also they need to represent, much like angels represent the beautiful, pure, eternal side of the human spirit, monsters need to represent a more tangible, more mortal side of being human: aging, decay, darkness and so forth. And I believe that monsters originally, when we were cavemen and you know, sitting around a fire, we needed to explain the birth of the sun and the death of the moon and the phases of the moon and rain and thunder. And we invented creatures that made sense of the world: a serpent that ate the sun, a creature that ate the moon, a man in the moon living there, things like that. And as we became more and more sophisticated and created sort of a social structure, the real enigmas started not to be outside. The rain and the thunder were logical now. But the real enigmas became social. All those impulses that we were repressing: cannibalism, murder, these things needed an explanation. The sex drive, the need to hunt, the need to kill, these things then became personified in monsters. Werewolves, vampires, ogres, this and that. I feel that monsters are here in our world to help us understand it. They are an essential part of a fable. ~ Guillermo del Toro,

1324:Do I Love You" I stand in the night and stare up at a lone star, wondering what love means. You whisper your desire—do I love you? I dare say yes. But my eyes drift back to that solitary star; my mind is plagued with intimate uncertainty. What art thou, Love? Tell me. I contemplate what I know—the qualities that love doth not possess. Love lifts no cruel or unkind hand, for it seeketh no harm. It shirks from constraints and demands, for tyranny is not love. A boisterous voice never crosses love's lips, for to speak with thunder chases its very presence from the heart. Love inflicts no pain, no fear, no misery, but conquers all such foes. It is said that love is not selfish, yet it does not guilt those who are. On a heart unwillingly given it stakes no claim. Love is nothing from Pandora's box; it is no evil, sin, or sorrow unleashed on this world. My eyes glimmer as the star I gaze upon twinkles with brightness that I do not possess. I recognize my smallness—my ignorance of the One whose hands placed that star in the heavens for me. He is love. By His own mouth He proclaimed it. Again the whispered question hits my ear—do I love you? I dare say yes. But my eyes squint tight, wishing on a lonely star, wondering what love means. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

1325:The Creed To Be Our thoughts are molding unmade spheres, And, like a blessing or a curse, They thunder down the formless years, And ring throughout the universe. We build our futures, by the shape Of our desires, and not by acts. There is no pathway of escape; No priest-made creeds can alter facts. Salvation is not begged or bought; Too long this selfish hope sufficed; Too long man reeked with lawless thought, And leaned upon a tortured Christ. Like shriveled leaves, these worn out creeds Are dropping from Religion’s tree; The world begins to know its needs, And souls are crying to be free. Free from the load of fear and grief, Man fashioned in an ignorant age; Free from the ache of unbelief He fled to in rebellious rage. No church can bind him to the things That fed the first crude souls, evolved; For, mounting up on daring wings, He questions mysteries all unsolved. Above the chant of priests, above The blatant voice of braying doubt, He hears the still, small voice of Love, Which sends its simple message out. And clearer, sweeter, day by day, Its mandate echoes from the skies, “Go roll the stone of self away, And let the Christ within thee rise.” 571 ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

1326:The Apache Indians were wandering tribes who lived in the Southwest. Their dances are religious ceremonies in which they worship their gods: the sun, the moon, the planets, wind, rain, thunder, lightning, and certain animals. Many charms and fetishes are used in these ceremonies. The masks and headdresses are made under the supervision of a priest, and before they are assembled, the dancers go through the purifying ceremony of a sweat bath. The medicine men’s costumes of the Apache Devil Dance are very colorful and are all somewhat different. There are usually four dancers, one representing the devil. Attached to the cloth mask which covers the face is a fan-shaped headdress made of thin narrow trips of yucca wood. These strips are arranged in many different ways and are painted with symbols representing the sun, moon, rain, stars, lightning, and so forth. Sometimes these designs were perforated through the thin slabs of wood. This fan is supposed to represent the spread tail feathers of a great bird. Sometimes turkey feathers were used on the headdress in place of the wooden fan. The Apache medicine men made two sets of masks. These marks were used until it was felt that they had been worn out and had lost their magic powers. Then they were replaced with new masks, having strong and fresh medicine. ~ W Ben Hunt,

1327:Christianity - and that is its greatest merit - has somewhat mitigated that brutal Germanic love of war, but it could not destroy it. Should that subduing talisman, the cross, be shattered, the frenzied madness of the ancient warriors, that insane Berserk rage of which Nordic bards have spoken and sung so often, will once more burst into flame. This talisman is fragile, and the day will come when it will collapse miserably. Then the ancient stony gods will rise from the forgotten debris and rub the dust of a thousand years from their eyes, and finally Thor with his giant hammer will jump up and smash the Gothic cathedrals. ... Do not smile at the visionary who anticipates the same revolution in the realm of the visible as has taken place in the spiritual. Thought precedes action as lightning precedes thunder. German thunder is of true Germanic character; it is not very nimble, but rumbles along ponderously. Yet, it will come and when you hear a crashing such as never before has been heard in the world's history, then you know that the German thunderbolt has fallen at last. At that uproar the eagles of the air will drop dead, and lions in the remotest deserts of Africa will hide in their royal dens. A play will be performed in Germany which will make the French Revolution look like an innocent idyll. (1834) ~ Heinrich Heine,

1328:Maddy shook her head, as if the movement could somehow shake the reality away. She simply couldn’t believe it. That by saving her he had actually, knowingly put himself in line for a consequence this severe. So much was kept hidden about the Angels, about how they handled their internal affairs—brutally, it turned out. All the while they put on a smooth, clean exterior for the public and the media. “What can I do?” she said finally. Jacks looked at her through the deluge. “Come with me.” There he stood in the pouring rain, the image of shirtless soaked perfection. He stood before her offering her a choice just like he had the night they went flying. She was at another crossroads. She knew she could just leave. Knew she probably should. But they were going to take his wings, and it was all her fault. Her fault for going to the party, her fault for trying to follow through with her plan, her fault for leaving and insisting on walking home. Could she really leave him now? Before she had even decided, her mouth opened. “Yes,” she said. Just like when he had invited her to the party. It simply came out, as though her true desires could no longer be repressed. Jacks smiled a dripping, radiant smile. A flash of lightning lit the roof, followed closely by a bark of thunder. ~ Scott Speer,

1329:Fantasia Here in Samarcand they offer emeralds, Pure as frozen drops of sea-water, Rubies, pale as dew-ponds stained with slaughter, Where the fairies fought for a king's daughter In the elfin upland. Here they sell you jade and calcedony, And the matrix of the turquoise, Spheres of onyx held in eagles' claws, But they keep the gems as far asunder From the dull stones as the lightning from the thunder; They can never come together On the mats of Turkish leather In the booths of Samarcand. Here they sell you balls of nard and honey, And squat jars of clarid butter, And the cheese from Kurdistan. When you offer Frankish money, Then they scowl and curse and mutter, Deep in Kurdish or Persan For they want your heart out and my hand In the booths of Samarcand. They would sell your heart's blood separate, In a jar with a gold brim, With a text of burning hatred Coiled around the rim; They would sell my hand upon a beam of teak wood, In the other scale a feather curled; They would sell your heart upon a silver balance Weighed against the world. But your heart could never touch my hand, They could never come together On the mats of Turkish leather In the booths of Samarcand. ~ Duncan Campbell Scott,

1330:O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle -- be Thou near them! With them -- in spirit -- we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it -- for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen. ~ Mark Twain,

1331:The temple drum is as big as a barrel, and it sits on a tall wooden platform. When you play it, you stand in front, facing the stretched hide, trying to control your breathing, which is jumping all over the place because you are so nervous. The priests and nuns are chanting by the big altar, and you listen for your cue, which is getting closer and closer. Then, at just the right moment, you take a big breath, raise your sticks, draw back your arms, and You have to get the timing just right, and even though I was scared to make a mistake in front of all those people, I think I did a pretty good job. I really like drumming. While I’m doing it, I am aware of the sixty-five moments that Jiko says are in the snap of a finger. I’m serious. When you’re beating a drum, you can hear when the BOOM comes the teeniest bit too late or the teeniest bit too early, because your whole attention is focused on the razor edge between silence and noise. Finally I achieved my goal and resolved my childhood obsession with now because that’s what a drum does. When you beat a drum, you create NOW, when silence becomes a sound so enormous and alive it feels like you’re breathing in the clouds and the sky, and your heart is the rain and the thunder. Jiko says that this is an example of the time being. Sound and no-sound. Thunder and silence. ~ Ruth Ozeki,

1332:She dances through the night air. With each step, lightning flashes from her eyes like diamonds, and thunder rages like a heart beating in love. Her feet move with an agility and grace that can never be replicated. All things good and beautiful want to feel the warmth of her aura. She's beautiful and I sit back and watch her dance. She's a light I can't touch. Her brilliance blinds my eyes, but I still can't look away. She's a song that I can't remember. The melody slips past my ears before I can memorize the progressions. She's the ending of a book I lost before reaching the final pages. She's everything good that can never be replaced, and I don't think I can stand the feeling that makes me want to love her more and more with each passing moment. She is a goddess. She can't cure me. I dream of her but my dreams are dark and she's always one step out of reach. I want to find her but there are too many trees and I get lost easily. I'm left standing out in the rain, water pooling in my sneakers, as she dances away in a sunlight that shines only over her beautiful hair and face. She is not and can never be mine. My darkness can't ever break through her charms. I must be strong and keep away. I don't want to make her wilt. She is a song written for someone else. ~ Jeyn Roberts,

1333:There was a dreadful logic here - so obvious he had overlooked it. The real need was for a different kind of book altogether, a book for the times. Very well then, he would explore that infernal map, transcribe its morbid cartography; record the tale of a realm that was at once a city and Hell and himself. In this way Owen Maddock turned his back on the light and sought out the oracles that lurk in darkness. A feverish energy possessed him. He laboured as never before upon his given work. Now he would strive to be obscure, to lead his readers by crooked paths, baffle them with indecipherable mysteries. There would no delicacy of style, only 'thunder at midnight'. Little by little there rose up before his inner eye a new vision to replace that of the White Road that had led him nowhere: a Kingdom of Darkness, a crepuscular domain of monstrous cults that chanted, to the tolling of iron bells and the beating of brazen gongs, unpronounceable demonic litanies. He must familiarise himself with every aspect of this world, its endless roll-calls of Hell, the spells by which the doors of the pit might be opened. He must cast in awful detail the laws by which tortures were administered. He would write for days in a frenzy, his mind ranging on raven's wings through skies black as pitch. "The White Road ~ Ron Weighell,

1334:You would -- you would take him into Your heaven, my lord?" asked Ingrey in astonishment and outrage. "He slew, not in defense of his own life, but in malice and madness. He tried to steal powers not rightly given to him. If I guess right, he plotted the death of his own brother. He would have raped Ijada, if he could, and killed again for his sport!" The Son held up his hands. Luminescent, they seemed, as if dappled by autumn sun reflecting off a stream into shade. "My grace flows from me as a river, wolf-lord. Would you have me dole it out in the exact measure that men earn, as from an apothecary's dropper? Would you stand in pure water to your waist, and administer it by the scant spoon to men dying of thirst on a parched shore?" Ingrey stood silent, abashed, but Ijada lifted her face, and said steadily, "No, my lord, for my part. Give him to the river. Tumble him down in the thunder of Your cataract. His loss is no gain of mine, nor his dark deserving any joy to me." The god smiled brilliantly at her. Tears slid down her face like silver threads: like benedictions. "It is unjust," whispered Ingrey. "Unfair to all who -- who would try to do rightly...." "Ah, but I am not the god for justice," murmured the Son. "Would you both stand before my Father instead? ~ Lois McMaster Bujold,

1335:Concealment No; to what purpose should I speak? No, wretched heart! swell till you break. She cannot love me if she would; And, to say truth, 'twere pity that she should. No; to the grave thy sorrows bear; As silent as they will be there: Since that lov'd hand this mortal wound does give, So handsomely the thing contrive, That she may guiltless of it live; So perish, that her killing thee May a chance-medley,and no murder, be. 'Tis nobler much for me, that I By her beauty, not her anger, die: This will look justly, and become An execution; that, a martyrdom. The censuring world will ne'er refrain From judging men by thunder slain. She must be angry, sure, if I should be So bold to ask her to make me, By being hers, happier than she! I will not; 't is a milder fate To fall by her not loving, than her hate. And yet this death of mine, I fear, Will ominous to her appear; When, sound in every other part, Her sacrifice is found without an heart; For the last tempest of my death Shall sigh out that too with my breath. Then shall the world my noble ruin see, Some pity and some envy me; Then she herself, the mighty she, Shall grace my funerals with this truth; ' 'T was only Love destroy'd the gentle youth.' ~ Abraham Cowley,

1336:When I rode along the Kinshasa Highway as a boy, it was a dusty, unpaved thread that wandered through the Rift Valley toward Lake Victoria, carrying not much traffic. It was a gravel road engraved with washboard bumps and broken by occasional pitlike ruts that could crack the frame of a Land Rover. As you drove along it, you would see in the distance a plume of dust growing larger, coming toward you: an automobile. You would move to the shoulder and slow down, and as the car approached, you would place both hands upon the windshield to keep it from shattering if a pebble thrown up by the passing car hit the glass. The car would thunder past, leaving you blinded in yellow fog. Now the road was paved and had a stripe painted down the center, and it carried a continual flow of vehicles. The overlanders were mixed up with pickup trucks and vans jammed with people, and the road reeked of diesel smoke. The paving of the Kinshasa Highway affected every person on earth, and turned out to be one of the most important events of the twentieth century. It has already cost at least ten million lives, with the likelihood that the ultimate number of human casualties will vastly exceed the deaths in the Second World War. In effect, I had witnessed a crucial event in the emergence of AIDS, the transformation of a thread of dirt into a ribbon of tar. ~ Richard Preston,

1337:The Chestnut Casts His Flambeaux The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away, The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers. Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May. There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot, One season ruined of your little store. May will be fine next year as like as not: But ay, but then we shall be twenty-four. We for a certainty are not the first Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed Whatever brute and blackguard made the world. It is in truth iniquity on high To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave, And mar the merriment as you and I Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave. Iniquity it is; but pass the can. My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore; Our only portion is the estate of man: We want the moon, but we shall get no more. If here to-day the cloud of thunder lours To-morrow it will hie on far behests; The flesh will grieve on other bones than ours Soon, and the soul will mourn in other breasts. The troubles of our proud and angry dust Are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale. ~ Alfred Edward Housman,

1338:The history of the thing might amuse you," he said. "When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in Superstition the Vampire and Priests of Prey. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, 'Down! down! presumptuous human reason!' they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence--the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out 'Blood!' abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, 'Let the weak perish; it is the Law.' Well, well, it seems majors don't do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe. ~ G K Chesterton,

1339:Is this the region, this the soil, the clime, Said then the lost Archangel, this the seat That we must change for heav'n, this mournful gloom For that celestial light? Be it so since he Who now is sovereign can dispose and bid What shall be right. Farthest from him is best Whom reason hath equaled force hath made supreme Above his equals. Farewell happy fields Where joy forever dwells. Hail horrors Hail Infernal world, and thou profoundest hell Receive thy new possessor, one who brings A mind not to be changed by place or time The mind is its own place and in itself Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n. What matter where if I be still the same And what I should be--All but less than he Whom thunder hath made greater. Here at least We shall be free. Th' Almighty hath not built Here for his envy will not drive us hence. Here we may reign supreme, and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in hell. Better to reign in hell than serve in Heav'n. But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, Th'associates and co-partners of our loss Lie thus astonished on th' oblivious pool. And call them not to share with us their part In this unhappy mansion? Or, once more, With rallying arms, to try what may be yet Regained in heav'n or what more lost in hell! ~ John Milton,

1340:1126 When Pa Counts Pa's not so very big or brave; he can't lift weights like Uncle Jim; His hands are soft like little girls'; most anyone could wallop him. Ma weighs a whole lot more than Pa. When they go swimming, she could stay Out in the river all day long, but Pa gets frozen right away. But when the thunder starts to roll, an' lightnin' spits, Ma says, ' Oh, dear, I'm sure we'll all of us be killed. I only wish your Pa was here.' Pa's cheeks are thin an' kinder pale; he couldn't rough it worth a cent. He couldn't stand the hike we had the day the Boy Scouts camping went. He has to hire a man to dig the garden, coz his back gets lame, An' he'd be crippled for a week, if he should play a baseball game. But when a thunder storm comes up, Ma sits an' shivers in the gloam An' every time the thunder rolls, she says: ' I wish your Pa was home.' I don't know just what Pa could do if he were home, he seems so frail, But every time the skies grow black I notice Ma gets rather pale. An' when she's called us children in, an' locked the windows an' the doors, She jumps at every lightnin' flash an' trembles when the thunder roars. An' when the baby starts to cry, she wrings her hands an' says: 'Oh, dear! It's terrible! It's terrible! I only wish your Pa was here.' ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

1341:Storm Catechism" The gods are rinsing their just-boiled pasta in a colander, which is why it is humid and fitfully raining down here in the steel sink of mortal life. Sometimes you can smell the truffle oil and hear the ambrosia being knocked back, sometimes you catch a drift of laughter in that thunder crack: Zeus knocking over his glass, spilling lightning into a tree. The tree shears away from itself and falls on a car, killing a high school girl. Or maybe it just crashes down on a few trash cans, and the next day gets cut up and hauled away by the city. Either way, hilarity. The gods are infinitely perfect as is their divine mac and cheese. Where does macaroni come from? Where does matter? Why does the cat act autistic when you call her, then bat a moth around for an hour, watching intently as it drags its wings over the area rug? The gods were here first, and they're bigger. They always were, and always will be living it up in their father's mansion. You only crawled from the drain a few millennia ago, after inventing legs for yourself so you could stand, inventing fists in order to raise them and curse the heavens. Do the gods see us? Will the waters be rising soon? The waters will be rising soon. Find someone or something to cling to. ~ Kim Addonizio,

1342:I. Fairest of the Destinies, Disarray thy dazzling eyes: Keener far thy lightnings are Than the winged [bolts] thou bearest, And the smile thou wearest Wraps thee as a star Is wrapped in light. II. Could Arethuse to her forsaken urn From Alpheus and the bitter Doris run, Or could the morning shafts of purest light Again into the quivers of the Sun Be gatheredcould one thought from its wild flight Return into the temple of the brain Without a change, without a stain,-- Could aught that is, ever again Be what it once has ceased to be, Greece might again be free! III. A star has fallen upon the earth Mid the benighted nations, A quenchless atom of immortal light, A living spark of Night, A cresset shaken from the constellations. Swifter than the thunder fell To the heart of Earth, the well Where its pulses flow and beat, And unextinct in that cold source Burns, and on ... course Guides the sphere which is its prison, Like an angelic spirit pent In a form of mortal birth, Till, as a spirit half-arisen Shatters its charnel, it has rent, In the rapture of its mirth, The thin and painted garment of the Earth, Ruining its chaosa fierce breath Consuming all its forms of living death. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Fragments Written For Hellas ,

1343:I see no justice in that plan." "Who said," lashed out Isaac Penn, "that you, a man, can always perceive justice? Who said that justice is what you imagine? Can you be sure that you know it when you see it, that you will live long enough to recognize the decisive thunder of its occurrence, that it can be manifest within a generation, within ten generations, within the entire span of human existence? What you are talking about is common sense, not justice. Justice is higher and not as easy to understand -- until it presents itself in unmistakable splendor. The design of which I speak is far above our understanding. But we can sometimes feel its presence. "No choreographer, no architect, engineer, or painter could plan more thoroughly and subtly. Every action and every scene has its purpose. And the less power one has, the closer he is to the great waves that sweep through all things, patiently preparing them for the approach of a future signified not by simple human equity (a child could think of that), but by luminous and surprising connections that we have not imagined, by illustrations terrifying and benevolent -- a golden age that will show not what we wish, but some bare awkward truth upon which rests everything that ever was and everything that ever will be. There is justice in the world, Peter Lake, but it cannot be had without mystery. ~ Mark Helprin,

1344:The Hapless Army “A soldier braving disease and death on the battlefield has a seven times better chance of life than a new-born baby.”—Secretary of War, U.S.A. The Hapless Army from the dark That lies beyond creation, All blinded by the solar spark, And leaderless in lands forlorn, Come stumbling through the mists of morn; And foes in close formation, With taloned fingers dripping red, Bestrew the sodden world with dead. The Hapless Army bears no sword; Fell destiny fulfilling, It marches where the murder horde, Amid the fair new urge of life, With poison stream, and shot, and knife, Make carnival of killing. No war above black Hell's abyss Knows evil grim and foul as this. In pallid hillocks lie the slain The callous heaven under; Like twisted hieroglyphs of pain They fleck earth to oblivion's brink, As far as human mind may think, Accusing God with thunder Of dreadful silence. Nought it serves— Fate ever calls the doomed reserves! Still with Death's own monotony The innocents are falling, Like dead leaves in a forest dree; And still the conscript armies come. No banners theirs, no beat of drum, No merry bugles calling! 125 Mad ally in the Slayers' train, Man slaps and sorrows for the slain! ~ Edward George Dyson,

1345:Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather; Come to-day, and come to-morrow, I do love you both together! I love to mark sad faces in fair weather; And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder; Fair and foul I love together. Meadows sweet where flames are under, And a giggle at a wonder; Visage sage at pantomine; Funeral, and steeple-chime; Infant playing with a skull; Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull; Nightshade with the woodbine kissing; Serpents in red roses hissing; Cleopatra regal-dress'd With the aspic at her breast; Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad; Muses bright and muses pale; Sombre Saturn, Momus hale;-- Laugh and sigh, and laugh again; Oh the sweetness of the pain! Muses bright, and muses pale, Bare your faces of the veil; Let me see; and let me write Of the day, and of the night - Both together: - let me slake All my thirst for sweet heart-ache! Let my bower be of yew, Interwreath'd with myrtles new; Pines and lime-trees full in bloom, And my couch a low grass-tomb. 'This is the fourth of the undated fragments at the end of Volume I of the Life, Letters &c. (1848).' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Milton. ,

1346:Sought we the Scrivani word-work of Surthur Long-lost in ledger all hope forgotten. Yet fast-found for friendship fair the book-bringer Hot comes the huntress Fela, flushed with finding Breathless her breast her high blood rising To ripen the red-cheek rouge-bloom of beauty. “That sort of thing,” Simmon said absently, his eyes still scanning the pages in front of him. I saw Fela turn her head to look at Simmon, almost as if she were surprised to see him sitting there. No, it was almost as if up until that point, he’d just been occupying space around her, like a piece of furniture. But this time when she looked at him, she took all of him in. His sandy hair, the line of his jaw, the span of his shoulders beneath his shirt. This time when she looked, she actually saw him. Let me say this. It was worth the whole awful, irritating time spent searching the Archives just to watch that moment happen. It was worth blood and the fear of death to see her fall in love with him. Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love, so light she probably didn’t notice it herself. It wasn’t dramatic, like some bolt of lightning with a crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and the spark fades almost too fast for you to see. But still, you know it’s there, down where you can’t see, kindling. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

1347:The sound of thunder awake me, and when I got up, my feet sank into muddy water up to my ankles. Mother took Buster and Helen to high ground to pray, but I stayed behind with Apache and Lupe. We barricaded the door with the rug and started bailing water out the window. Mother came back and begged us to go pray with her on the hilltop. "To heck with praying!" I shouted. "Bail, dammit, bail!" Mom look mortified. I could tell she thought I'd probably doomed us all with my blasphemy, and I was a little shocked at it myself, but with the water rising so fast, the situation was dire. We had lit the kerosene lamp, and we could see the walls of the dugout were beginning to sag inward. If Mom had pitched in and helped, there was a chance we might have been able to save the dugout - not a good chance, but a fighting chance. Apache and Lupe and I couldn't do it on our own, though, and when the ceiling started to cave, we grabbed Mom's walnut headboard and pulled it through the door just as the dugout collapsed in on itself, burying everything. Afterward, I was pretty aggravated with Mom. She kept saying that the flood was God's will and we had to submit to it. But I didn't see things that way. Submitting seemed to me a lot like giving up. If God gave us the strength to bail - the gumption to try to save ourselves - isn't that what he wanted us to do? ~ Jeannette Walls,

1348:After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water - The Waste Land (ll. 322-358) ~ T S Eliot,

1349:Perhaps there are events and things that work as a doorway into a mythical world, the world of first people, all the way back to the creation of the universe and the small quickenings of earth, the first stirrings of human beings at the beginnings of time. Our elders believe this to be so, that it is possible to wind a way backwards to the start of things, and in doing so find a form of sacred reason, different from ordinary reason, that is linked to forces of nature. In this kind of mind, like in the feather, is the power of sky and thunder and sun, and many have had alliances and partnerships with it, a way of thought older than measured time, less primitive than the rational present. Others have tried for centuries to understand the world by science and intellect but have not yet done so, not yet understood animals, finite earth, or even their own minds and behavior. The more they seek to learn the world, the closer they come to the spiritual, the magical origins of creation. There is a still place, a gap between the worlds, spoken by the tribal knowings of thousands of years. In it are silent flyings that stand aside from human struggles and the designs of our own makings. At times, when we are silent enough, still enough, we take a step into such mystery, the place of spirit, and mystery, we must remember, by its very nature does not wish to be known. ~ Linda Hogan,

1350:Where I come from, Annagramma, they have the Sheepdog Trials. Shepherds travel there from all over to show off their dogs. And there're silver crooks and belts with silver buckles and prizes of all kinds, Annagramma, but do you know what the big prize is? No, you wouldn't. Oh, there are judges, but they don't count, not for the big prize. There is - there was a little old lady who was always at the front of the crowd, leaning on the hurdles with her pipe in her mouth with the two finest sheepdogs ever pupped sitting at her feet. Their names were Thunder and Lightning, and they moved so fast, they set the air on fire and their coats outshone the sun, but she never, ever put them in the Trials. She knew more about sheep than even sheep know. And what every young shepherd wanted, really wanted, wasn't some silly cup or belt but to see her take pipe out of her mouth as he left the arena and quietly say 'That'll do,' because that meant he was a real shepherd and all the other shepherds knew it, too. And if you'd told him he had to challenge her, he'd cuss at you and stamp his foot and tell you he'd sooner spit the sun dark. How could he ever win? She was shepherding. It was the whole of her life. What you took away from her you'd take away from yourself. You don't understand that, do you? But it's the heart and the soul and center of it! The soul... and... center! ~ Terry Pratchett,

1351:Salvini In America Come, gentlemen-your gold. Thanks: welcome to the show. To hear a story told In words you do not know. Now, great Salvini, rise And thunder through your tears, Aha! friends, let your eyes Interpret to your ears. Gods! 't is a goodly game. Observe his stride-how grand! When legs like his declaim Who can misunderstand? See how that arm goes round. It says, as plain as day: 'I love,' 'The lost is found,' 'Well met, sir,' or, 'Away!' And mark the drawing down Of brows. How accurate The language of that frown: Pain, gentlemen-or hate. Those of the critic trade Swear it is all as clear As if his tongue were made To fit an English ear. Hear that Italian phrase! Greek to your sense, 't is true; But shrug, expression, gaze Well, they are Grecian too. But it is Art! God wot Its tongue to all is known. Faith! he to whom 't were not Would better hold his own. 412 Shakespeare says act and word Must match together true. From what you've seen and heard, How can you doubt they do? Enchanting drama! Mark The crowd 'from pit to dome', One box alone is dark The prompter stays at home. Stupendous artist! You Are lord of joy and woe: We thrill if you say 'Boo,' And thrill if you say 'Bo.' ~ Ambrose Bierce,

1352:Be fair, my friends! To be the empire of such an emperor, what a splendid destiny for a nation, when that nation is France, and when it adds its genius to the genius of such a man ! To appear and to reign, to march and to triumph, to have every capital for a staging area, to take his grenadiers and make kings of them, to decree the downfall of dynasties, to transfigure Europe at a double quickstep, so men feel, when you threaten, that you are laying your hand on the hilt of God’s sword, to follow in one man Hannibal , Caesar, and Charlemagne, to be the people of a man who mingles with your every dawn the glorious announcement of a battle won, to be wakened in the morning by the cannon of the Invalides, to hurl into the vault of day mighty words that blaze forever, Marengo, Arcola, Austerlitz, lena, Wagram ! To repeatedly call forth constellations of victories at the zenith of the centuries, to make the French Empire the successor of the Roman Empire, to be the grand nation and to bring forth the Grand Army, to send your legions flying across the whole earth as a mountain sends out its eagles, to vanquish, to rule, to strike thunder, to be for Europe a kind of golden people through glory, to sound through history a Titan’s fanfare, to conquer the world twice, by conquest and by resplendence, that is sublime. What could be greater?" "To be free," said Combeferre. ~ Victor Hugo,

1353:Definition Of The Frontiers First there is the wind but not like the familiar wind but long and without lapses or falling away or surges of air as is usual but rather like the persistent pressure of a river or a running tide. This wind is from the other side and has an odor unlike the odor of the winds with us but like time if time had odor and were cold and carried a bitter and sharp taste like rust on the taste of snow or the fragrance of thunder. When the air has this taste of time the frontiers are not far from us. Then too there are the animals. There are always animals under the small trees. They belong neither to our side nor to theirs but are wild and because they are animals of such kind that wildness is unfamiliar in them as the horse for example or the goat and often sheep and dogs and like creatures their wandering there is strange and even terrifying signaling as it does the violation of custom and the subversion of order. There are also the unnatural lovers the distortion of images the penetration of mirrors and the inarticulate meanings of the dreams. The dreams are in turmoil like a squall of birds. Finally there is the evasion of those with whom we have come. It is at the frontiers that the companions desert us—that the girl returns to the old country that we are alone. ~ Archibald MacLeish,

1354:Bellinglise Deep in the sloping forest that surrounds The head of a green valley that I know, Spread the fair gardens and ancestral grounds Of Bellinglise, the beautiful chateau. Through shady groves and fields of unmown grass, It was my joy to come at dusk and see, Filling a little pond's untroubled glass, Its antique towers and mouldering masonry. Oh, should I fall to-morrow, lay me here, That o'er my tomb, with each reviving year, Wood-flowers may blossom and the wood-doves croon; And lovers by that unrecorded place, Passing, may pause, and cling a little space, Close-bosomed, at the rising of the moon. II Here, where in happier times the huntsman's horn Echoing from far made sweet midsummer eves, Now serried cannon thunder night and morn, Tearing with iron the greenwood's tender leaves. Yet has sweet Spring no particle withdrawn Of her old bounty; still the song-birds hail, Even through our fusillade, delightful Dawn; Even in our wire bloom lilies of the vale. You who love flowers, take these; their fragile bells Have trembled with the shock of volleyed shells, And in black nights when stealthy foes advance They have been lit by the pale rockets' glow That o'er scarred fields and ancient towns laid low Trace in white fire the brave frontiers of France. ~ Alan Seeger,

1355:A Portrait Of 1783 Your hair and chin are like the hair And chin Burne-Jones's ladies wear; You were unfashionably fair In '83; And sad you were when girls are gay, You read a book about Le vrai Merite de l'homme, alone in May. What CAN it be, Le vrai merite de l'homme? Not gold, Not titles that are bought and sold, Not wit that flashes and is cold, But Virtue merely! Instructed by Jean-Jacques Rousseau (And Jean-Jacques, surely, ought to know), You bade the crowd of foplings go, You glanced severely, Dreaming beneath the spreading shade Of 'that vast hat the Graces made;' So Rouget sang--while yet he played With courtly rhyme, And hymned great Doisi's red perruque, And Nice's eyes, and Zulme's look, And dead canaries, ere he shook The sultry time With strains like thunder. Loud and low Methinks I hear the murmur grow, The tramp of men that come and go With fire and sword. They war against the quick and dead, Their flying feet are dashed with red, As theirs the vintaging that tread Before the Lord. O head unfashionably fair, What end was thine, for all thy care? We only see thee dreaming there: We cannot see The breaking of thy vision, when The Rights of Man were lords of men, When virtue won her own again In '93. ~ Andrew Lang,

1356:The Maranoa Drovers The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o'er; Our horses we will mount and ride away, To watch the squatters' cattle through the darkness of the night, And we'll keep them on the camp till break of day. For we're going, going, going to Gunnedah so far, And we'll soon be into sunny New South Wales; We shall bid farewell to Queensland, with its swampy coolibah Happy drovers from the sandy Maranoa. When the fires are burning bright through the darkness of the night, And the cattle camping quiet, well, I'm sure That I wish for two o'clock when I call the other watch This is droving from the sandy Maranoa. Our beds made on the ground, we are sleeping all so sound When we're wakened by the distant thunder's roar, And the lightning's vivid flash, followed by an awful crash It's rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa. We are up at break of day, and we're all soon on the way, For we always have to go ten miles or more; It don't do to loaf about, or the squatter will come out He's strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa. We shall soon be on the Moonie, and we'll cross the Barwon, too; Then we'll be out upon the rolling plains once more; We'll shout "Hurrah! for old Queensland, with its swampy coolibah, And the cattle that come off the Maranoa." ~ Banjo Paterson,

1357:Flute-Priest Song For Rain Whistle under the water, Make the water bubble to the tones of the flute. I call the bluebirds song into the water: Wee-kee! Wee-kee-kee! Dawn is coming, The morning star shines upon us. Bluebird singing to the West clouds, Bring the humming rain. Water-rattles shake, Flute whistles, Star in Heaven shines. I blow the oriole's song, The yellow song of the North. I call rain clouds with my rattles: Wee-kee-kee, oriole. Pattering rain. To the South I blow my whistle, To the red parrot of the South I call. Send red lightning, Under your wings The forked lightning. Thunder-rattles whirl To the sky waters. Fill the springs. The water is moving. Wait Whistle to the East With a magpie voice. Wee-kee! Wee-kee-kee! Call the storm-clouds That they come rushing. Call the loud rain. Why does it not come? Who is bad? Whose heart is evil? 78 Who has done wickedness? I weep, I rend my garments, I grieve for the sin which is in this place. My flute sobs with the voice of all birds in the water. Even to the six directions I weep and despair. Come, O winds, from the sides of the sky, Open your bird-beaks that rain may fall down. Drench our fields, our houses, Fill the land With tumult of rain. ~ Amy Lowell,

1358:A Song Before Sailing Wind of the dead men's feet, Blow down the empty street Of this old city by the sea With news for me! Blow me beyond the grime And pestilence of time! I am too sick at heart to war With failure any more. Thy chill is in my bones; The moonlight on the stones Is pale, and palpable, and cold; I am as one grown old. I call from room to room Through the deserted gloom; The echoes are all words I know, Lost in some long ago. I prowl from door to door, And find no comrade more. The wolfish fear that children feel Is snuffing at my heel. I hear the hollow sound Of a great ship coming round, The thunder of tackle and the tread Of sailors overhead. That stormy-blown hulloo Has orders for me, too. I see thee, hand at mouth, and hark, My captain of the dark. O wind of the great East, By whom we are released From this strange dusty port to sail Beyond our fellows' hail, Under the stars that keep 30 The entry of the deep, Thy somber voice brings up the sea's Forgotten melodies; And I have no more need Of bread, or wine, or creed, Bound for the colonies of time Beyond the farthest prime. Wind of the dead men's feet, Blow through the empty street; The last adventurer am I, Then, world, goodby! ~ Bliss William Carman,

1359:Music The block of flats loomed towerlike. Two sweating athletes, human telpher, Were carrying up narrow stairs, As though a bell onto a belfry, As to a stony tableland The tables of the law, with caution, A huge and heavy concert-grand, Above the city's restless ocean. At last it stands on solid ground, While deep below the din and clatter Are damped, as though the town were drownedSunk to the bottom of a legend. The tenant of the topmost flat Looks down on earth over the railings, As if he held it in his hand, Its lawful ruler, never failing. Back in the drawing room he starts To play-not someone else's music, But his own thought, a new chorale, The stir of leaves, Hosannas booming. Improvisations sweep and peal, Bring night, flames, fire barrels rolling, Trees under downpour, rumbling wheels, Life of the streets, fate of the lonely… Thus Chopin would, at night, instead Of the outgrown, naive and artless, Write down on the black fretwork stand His soaring dream, his new departures. Or, overtaking in their flight The world by many generations, Valkyries shake the city roofs By thunderous reverberations. 95 Or through the lovers' tragic fate, Amidst infernal crash and thunder, Tchaikovsky harrowed us to tears, And rent the concert hall asunder. ~ Boris Pasternak,

1360:The Shag "What is that great bird, sister, tell me, Perched high on the top of the crag?" "'T is the cormorant, dear little brother; The fishermen call it the shag." "But what does it there, sister, tell me, Sitting lonely against the black sky?" "It has settled to rest, little brother; It hears the wild gale wailing high." "But I am afraid of it, sister, For over the sea and the land It gazes, so black and so silent!" "Little brother, hold fast to my hand." "Oh, what was that, sister? The thunder? Did the shag bring the storm and the cloud, The wind and the rain and the lightning?" "Little brother, the thunder roars loud. "Run fast, for the rain sweeps the ocean; Look! over the light-house it streams; And the lightning leaps red, and above us The gulls fill the air with their screams." O'er the beach, o'er the rocks, running swiftly, The little white cottage they gain; And safely they watch from the window The dance and the rush of the rain. But the shag kept his place on the headland, And when the brief storm had gone by, He shook his loose plumes, and they saw him Rise splendid and strong in the sky. Clinging fast to the gown of his sister, The little boy laughed as he flew; "He is gone with the wind and the lightning! And -- I am not frightened, -- are you?" 33 ~ Celia Thaxter,

1361:For a Student Sleeping in a Poetry Workshop I've watched his eyelids sag, spring open Vaguely and gradually go sliding Shut again, fly up With a kind of drunken surprise, then wobble Peacefully together to send him Home from one school early. Soon his lashes Flutter in REM sleep. I suppose he's dreaming What all of us kings and poets and peasants Have dreamed: of not making the grade, Of draining the inexhaustible horn cup Of the cerebral cortex where ganglions Are ganging up on us with more connections Than atoms in heaven, but coming up once more Empty. I see a clear stillness Settle over his face, a calming of the surface Of water when the wind dies. Somewhere Down there, he's taking another course Whose resonance (let's hope) resembles The muttered thunder, the gutter bowling, the lightning Of minor minions of Thor, the groans and gurgling Of feral lovers and preliterate Mowglis, the songs Of shamans whistled through bird bones. A worried neighbor Gives him the elbow, and he shudders Awake, recollects himself, brings back His hands from aboriginal outposts, Takes in new light, reorganizes his shoes, Stands up in them at the buzzer, barely recalls His books and notebooks, meets my eyes And wonders what to say and whether to say it, Then keeps it to himself as today's lesson. ~ David Wagoner,

1362:But one dreadful day, somewhere about the middle of the nineteenth century, somebody discovered (somebody pretty well off) the two great modern truths, that washing is a virtue in the rich and therefore a duty in the poor. For a duty is a virtue that one can't do. And a virtue is generally a duty that one can do quite easily; like the bodily cleanliness of the upper classes. But in the public-school tradition of public life, soap has become creditable simply because it is pleasant. Baths are represented as a part of the decay of the Roman Empire; but the same baths are represented as part of the energy and rejuvenation of the British Empire. There are distinguished public school men, bishops, dons, headmasters, and high politicians, who, in the course of the eulogies which from time to time they pass upon themselves, have actually identified physical cleanliness with moral purity. They say (if I remember rightly) that a public-school man is clean inside and out. As if everyone did not know that while saints can afford to be dirty, seducers have to be clean. As if everyone did not know that the harlot must be clean, because it is her business to captivate, while the good wife may be dirty, because it is her business to clean. As if we did not all know that whenever God's thunder cracks above us, it is very likely indeed to find the simplest man in a muck cart and the most complex blackguard in a bath. ~ G K Chesterton,

1363:NOBLE be man, Helpful and good! For that alone Distinguisheth him From all the beings Unto us known. Hail to the beings, Unknown and glorious, Whom we forebode! From his example Learn we to know them! For unfeeling Nature is ever: On bad and on good The sun alike shineth; And on the wicked, As on the best, The moon and stars gleam. Tempest and torrent, Thunder and hail, Roar on their path, Seizing the while, As they haste onward, One after another. Even so, fortune Gropes 'mid the throng-- Innocent boyhood's Curly head seizing,-- Seizing the hoary Head of the sinner. After laws mighty, Brazen, eternal, Must all we mortals Finish the circuit Of our existence. Man, and man only Can do the impossible; He 'tis distinguisheth, Chooseth and judgeth; He to the moment Endurance can lend. He and he only The good can reward, The bad can he punish, Can heal and can save; All that wanders and strays Can usefully blend. And we pay homage To the immortals As though they were men, And did in the great, What the best, in the small, Does or might do. Be the man that is noble, Both helpful and good. Unweariedly forming The right and the useful, A type of those beings Our mind hath foreshadow'd! ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Godlike ,

1364:The Open Sea From my window I can see, Where the sandhills dip, One far glimpse of open sea. Just a slender slip Curving like a crescent moon— Yet a greater prize Than the harbour garden-fair Spread beneath my eyes. Just below me swings the bay, Sings a sunny tune, But my heart is far away Out beyond the dune; Clearer far the sea-gulls’ cry And the breakers’ roar, Than the little waves beneath Lapping on the shore. For that strip of sapphire sea Set against the sky 16 Far horizons means to me— And the ships go by Framed between the empty sky And the yellow sands, While my freed thoughts follow them Out to other lands. All its changes who can tell? I have seen it shine Like a jewel polished well, Hard and clear and fine; Then soft lilac—and again On another day Glimpsed it through a veil of rain, Shifting, drifting grey. When the livid waters flee, Flinching from the storm, From my window I can see, Standing safe and warm, How the white foam tosses high 17 On the naked shore, And the breakers’ thunder grows To a battle-roar… Far and far I look—Ten miles? No, for yesterday Sure I saw the Blessed Isles Twenty worlds away. My blue moon of open sea, Is it little worth? At the least it gives to me Keys of all the earth ~ Dorothea Mackellar,

1365:Play it, Eddie, don't be foolish;' she urges. 'Now's the time, break the spell once and for all, prove to yourself that it can't hurt you. If you don't do it now, you'll never get over the idea. It'll stay with you all your life. Go ahead. I'll dance it just like I am.' 'Okay,' he says. He taps. It's been quite some time, but he can rely on his outfit. Slow and low like thunder far away, coming nearer. Boom-putta-putta-boom! Judy whirls out behind him, lets out the first preliminary screech, Eeyaeeya! She hears a commotion in back of her and stops as suddenly as she began. Eddie Bloch's fallen flat on his face and doesn't move again after that. They all know, somehow. There's an inertness, a finality about it that tells them. The dancers wait a minute, mill about, then melt away in a hush. Judy Jarvis doesn't scream, doesn't cry, just stands there staring, wondering. That last thought - did it come from inside his own mind just now - or outside? Was it two months on its way, from the other side of the grave, looking for him, looking for him, until it found him tonight when he played the Chant once more and laid his mind open to Africa? No policeman, no detective, no doctor, no scientist, will ever be able to tell her. Did it come from inside or from outside? All she says is: 'Stand close to me, boys - real close to me, I'm afraid of the dark.' ("Papa Benjamin" aka "Dark Melody Of Madness") ~ Cornell Woolrich,

1366:And Galahad fled along them bridge by bridge, And every bridge as quickly as he crost Sprang into fire and vanish'd, tho' I yearn'd To follow; and thrice above him all the heavens Open'd and blazed with thunder such as seem'd Shoutings of all the sons of God: and first At once I saw him far on the great Sea, In silver-shining armour starry-clear; And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung Clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud. And with exceeding swiftness ran the boat, If boat it were -- I saw not whence it came. And when the heavens open'd and blazed again Roaring, I saw him like a silver star -- And had he set the sail, or had the boat Become a living creature clad with wings? And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung Redder than any rose, a joy to me, For now I knew the veil had been withdrawn. Then in a moment when they blazed again Opening, I saw the least of little stars Down on the waste, and straight beyond the star I saw the spiritual city and all her spires And gateways in a glory like one pearl -- No larger, tho' the goal of all the saints -- Strike from the sea; and from the star there shot A rose-red sparkle to the city, and there Dwelt, and I knew it was the Holy Grail, Which never eyes on earth again shall see. [2490.jpg] -- from The Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse, Edited by D. H. S. Nicholson / Edited by A. H. E. Lee ~ Alfred Tennyson, And Galahad fled along them bridge by bridge (from The Holy Grail) ,

1367:What can I be thinking of? Just imagine my not having presented myself to you even yet! But as a matter of fact I do not want to tell you my name out loud; it is a romantic one, utterly inappropriate to the typically modern environment in which we now stand. Ah, if we were only on the steep side of some mountain with the moon like a great lamp above us, or by the shore of some wild ocean, there would be some glamour in proclaiming my identity in the silence of the night, or in the midst of lightning and thunder as a hurricane swept the seas! But here in a third-floor suite of the Royal Palace Hotel, surrounded by telephones and electric lights, and standing by a window overlooking the Champs Elysees-> it would be positively anachronistic!" He took a card out of his pocket and drew near the little writing desk. "Allow me, Princess, to slip my card into this drawer, left open on purpose, it would seem," and while the princess uttered a little cry she could not repress, he did just that. "And now, Princess," he went on, compelling her to retreat before him as he moved to the door of the anteroom opening on to the corridor, "you are too well bred, I am sure, not to wish to conduct your visitor to the door of your suite." His tone altered abruptly, and in a deep imperious voice that made the princess quake he ordered her: "And now, not a word, not a cry, not a movement until I am outside, or I will kill you! ~ Marcel Allain,

1368:Cat Parody On Poe's The other night while we lay musing, and our weary brain confusing o'er the topics of the day, Suddenly we heard a rattling, as of serious hosts a-battling, as they mingled in the fray. 'What is that?' we cried, upstarting, and into the darkness darting, slap! we ran against the door. 'Oh , 'tis nothing,' Edward grumbled, as o'er a huge armchair we stumbled, ''tis a bug and nothing more.' Then said we, our anger rising (for we thought it so surprising that a bug should thus offend)— 'Do you think a small insect, sir, thus would all the air infect, sir? No, 'tis not a bug, my friend. Now, becoming sorely frightened, round our waist our pants we tightened, and put on our coat and hat— When into the darkness peering, we saw with trembling and much fearing, the glaring eyes of Thomas Cat. With astonishment and wonder we gazed upon this son of thunder, as he sat upon the floor— When resolution taking, and a rapid movement making, lo, we opened wide the door. Now, clear out, we hoarsely shouted, as o'er head our boot was flouted. 'Take your presence from my floor.' Then with air and mien majestic, this dear creature called domestic, made his exit through the door. Made his exit without growling, neither was his voice howling, not a single word he said. And with feelings much elated, to escape a doom so fated, we went back to bed. ~ Anonymous Americas,

1369:The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke In Grattan's house. The Second. My great-grandfather shared A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once. The Third. My great-grandfather's father talked of music, Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne. The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once. The Fifth. Whence came our thought? The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery. The Fifth. Burke was a Whig. The Sixth. Whether they knew or not, Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery? A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind That never looked out of the eye of a saint Or out of drunkard's eye. The Seventh. All's Whiggery now, But we old men are massed against the world. The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India Harried, and Burke's great melody against it. The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen, Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields, But never saw the trefoil stained with blood, The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it. The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away. The Third. A voice Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap. The Sixth. What schooling had these four? The Seventh. They walked the roads Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic; They understood that wisdom comes of beggary. ~ William Butler Yeats, The Seven Sages ,

1370:The Devil's Nine Questions 'Oh, you must answer my questions nine, Sing ninety-nine and ninety, Or you're not God's, you're one of mine, And you are the weaver's bonny.' 'What is whiter than the milk? Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And what is softer than the silk? And you are the weaver's bonny.' 'Snow is whiter than the milk, Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And down is softer than the silk, And I am the weaver's bonny.' 'O what is higher than a tree? Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And what is deeper than the sea? And you are the weaver's bonny.' 'Heaven's higher than a tree, Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And Hell is deeper than the sea, And I am the weaver's bonny.' 'What is louder than a horn? Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And what is sharper than a thorn? And you are the weaver's bonny.' 'Thunder's louder than a horn, Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And death is sharper than a thorn, And I am the weaver's bonny.' 'What's more innocent than a lamb, Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And what is meaner than womankind? And you are the weaver's bonny.' 266 'A babe's more innocent than a lamb, Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And the devil is meaner than womankind, And I am the weaver's bonny.' 'O you have answered my questions nine, Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And you are God's, you're none of mine. And you are the weaver's bonny.' ~ Anonymous,

1371:To be truly challenging, a voyage, like a life, must rest on a firm foundation of financial unrest. Otherwise, you are doomed to a routine traverse, the kind known to yachtsmen who play with their boats at sea... "cruising" it is called. Voyaging belongs to seamen, and to the wanderers of the world who cannot, or will not, fit in. If you are contemplating a voyage and you have the means, abandon the venture until your fortunes change. Only then will you know what the sea is all about. "I've always wanted to sail to the south seas, but I can't afford it." What these men can't afford is not to go. They are enmeshed in the cancerous discipline of "security." And in the worship of security we fling our lives beneath the wheels of routine - and before we know it our lives are gone. What does a man need - really need? A few pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six feet to lie down in - and some form of working activity that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That's all - in the material sense, and we know it. But we are brainwashed by our economic system until we end up in a tomb beneath a pyramid of time payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetry, playthings that divert our attention for the sheer idiocy of the charade. The years thunder by, The dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed. Where, then, lies the answer? In choice. Which shall it be: bankruptcy of purse or bankruptcy of life? ~ Sterling Hayden,

1372:The Weaver All day, all day, round the clacking net The weaver's fingers fly: Gray dreams like frozen mists are set In the hush of the weaver's eye; A voice from the dusk is calling yet, 'Oh, come away, or we die!' Without is a horror of hosts that fight, That rest not, and cease not to kill, The thunder of feet and the cry of the flight, A slaughter weird and shrill; Gray dreams are set in the weaver's sight, The weaver is weaving still. 'Come away, dear soul, come away or we die; Hear'st thou the moan and the rush! Come away; The people are slain at the gates, and they fly; The kind God hath left them this day; The battle-axes cleaves, and the foemen cry, And the red swords swing and slay.' 'Nay, wife, what boots to fly from pain, When pain is wherever we fly? And death is a sweeter thing than a chain: 'Tis sweeter to sleep than to cry, The kind God giveth the days that wane; If the kind God hath said it, I die.' And the weaver wove, and the good wife fled, And the city was made a tomb, And a flame that shook from the rocks overhead Shone into that silent room, And touched like a wide red kiss on the dead Brown weaver slain by his loom. Yet I think that in some dim shadowy land, Where no suns rise or set, Where the ghost of a whilom loom doth stand Round the dusk of its silken net, 235 Forever flyeth his shadowy hand, And the weaver is weaving yet. ~ Archibald Lampman,

1373:The Merman Who would be A merman bold, Sitting alone, Singing alone Under the sea, With a crown of gold, On a throne? I would be a merman bold, I would sit and sing the whole of the day; I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power; But at night I would roam abroad and play With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower; And holding them back by their flowing locks I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly; And then we would wander away, away, To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, Chasing each other merrily. There would be neither moon nor star; But the wave would make music above us afar — Low thunder and light in the magic night — Neither moon nor star. We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, Call to each other and whoop and cry All night, merrily, merrily; They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, Laughing and clapping their hands between, All night, merrily, merrily, But I would throw to them back in mine Turkis and agate and almondine; Then leaping out upon them unseen I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly. Oh! what a happy life were mine 690 Under the hollow-hung ocean green! Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; We would live merrily, merrily. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1374:The Dead Poet Never again shall he with wizard sleight Ensare on threshold of his soul the bright Unearthly splendors that would oft alight, And in the magic web of melody Display them flashing as when they were free. Never again shall he be inflamed by Spring Soar to the gods to hear Apollo sing Songs ah! so sweet and with so tense a lyre They seemed as nectar flowing through white fire. Never again shall he fold truths in rhyme And thrust them clinging 'neath the wings of Time, Shape a fine fancy with unfaltering taste, Fondling the colors that the sounds embraced; Or with eyes dim from dreaming watch the slow Ascending sun's plume on a fervid glow, And pinions palely spreading far away; Or hear at night, when on his couch he lay, The moaning of the moonlit toiling sea With burden of o'erwhelming memory, Seeming to carry in an undertone Rumors of dauntless heroes he had known, Who bearded even gods to glut desire And fought beneath the thunder of their ire. Lured by the glamor of translunar dreams He chased through mist the ever-fleeting gleams. Aloof from wealth's red bubbled vanities, Contented to be thought not worldly wise Since he, when flamed the mantle of the seer, In mood majestic trod the magian sphere Where nature's veil at his authentic glance Fell quivering from her fire-bright countenance, And heard, like an abysmal heaving sea, The movement of the Eternal Harmony. ~ Arthur Bayldon,

1375:To The King On His Navy Where'er thy navy spreads her canvas wings, Homage to thee, and peace to all, she brings: The French and Spaniard, when thy flags appear, Forget their hatred, and consent to fear. So Jove from Ida did both hosts survey, And when he pleas'd to thunder, part the fray. Ships heretofore in seas like fishes sped, The mightiest still upon the smallest fed: Thou on the deep imposest nobler laws, And by that justice hast remov'd the cause Of those rude tempests, which, for rapine sent, Too oft, alas, involv'd the innocent. Now shall the ocean, as thy Thames, be free From both those fates, of storms and piracy. But we most happy, who can fear no force But winged troops, or Pegasean horse: 'Tis not so hard for greedy foes to spoil Another nation, as to touch our soil. Should Nature's self invade the world again, And o'er the centre spread the liquid main, Thy power were safe; and her destructive hand Would but enlarge the bounds of thy command: Thy dreadful fleet would style thee lord of all, And ride in triumph o'er the drowned ball: Those towers of oak o'er fertile plains might go, And visit mountains, where they once did grow. The world's restorer once could not endure, That finish'd Babel should those men secure, Whose pride design'd that fabric to have stood Above the reach of any second flood: To thee His chosen, more indulgent, He Dares trust such power with so much piety. ~ Edmund Waller,

1376:Inexpensive Progress Encase your legs in nylons, Bestride your hills with pylons O age without a soul; Away with gentle willows And all the elmy billows That through your valleys roll. Let's say goodbye to hedges And roads with grassy edges And winding country lanes; Let all things travel faster Where motor car is master Till only Speed remains. Destroy the ancient inn-signs But strew the roads with tin signs 'Keep Left,' 'M4,' 'Keep Out!' Command, instruction, warning, Repetitive adorning The rockeried roundabout; For every raw obscenity Must have its small 'amenity,' Its patch of shaven green, And hoardings look a wonder In banks of floribunda With floodlights in between. Leave no old village standing Which could provide a landing For aeroplanes to roar, But spare such cheap defacements As huts with shattered casements Unlived-in since the war. Let no provincial High Street Which might be your or my street Look as it used to do, But let the chain stores place here Their miles of black glass facia And traffic thunder through. And if there is some scenery, Some unpretentious greenery, Surviving anywhere, It does not need protecting For soon we'll be erecting A Power Station there. When all our roads are lighted By concrete monsters sited Like gallows overhead, Bathed in the yellow vomit Each monster belches from it, We'll know that we are dead. ~ John Betjeman,

1377:But the Gospels actually taught this: Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isn’t well connected. So it goes. *** The flaw in the Christ stories, said the visitor from outer space, was that Christ, who didn’t look like much, was actually the Son of the Most Powerful Being in the Universe. Readers understood that, so, when they came to the crucifixion, they naturally thought, and Rosewater read out loud again: Oh, boy—they sure picked the wrong guy to lynch that time! And that thought had a brother: “There are right people to lynch.” Who? People not well connected. So it goes. *** The visitor from outer space made a gift to Earth of a new Gospel. In it, Jesus really was a nobody, and a pain in the neck to a lot of people with better connections than he had. He still got to say all the lovely and puzzling things he said in the other Gospels. So the people amused themselves one day by nailing him to a cross and planting the cross in the ground. There couldn’t possibly be any repercussions, the lynchers thought. The reader would have to think that, too, since the new Gospel hammered home again and again what a nobody Jesus was. And then, just before the nobody died, the heavens opened up, and there was thunder and lightning. The voice of God came crashing down. He told the people that he was adopting the bum as his son, giving him the full powers and privileges of The Son of the Creator of the Universe throughout all eternity. God said this: From this moment on, He will punish horribly anybody who torments a bum who has no connections! ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

1378:Unarmed Saint Peter sat at the jasper gate, When Stephen M. White arrived in state. 'Admit me.' 'With pleasure,' Peter said, Pleased to observe that the man was dead; 'That's what I'm here for. Kindly show Your ticket, my lord, and in you go.' White stared in blank surprise. Said he 'I _run_ this place-just turn that key.' 'Yes?' said the Saint; and Stephen heard With pain the inflection of that word. But, mastering his emotion, he Remarked: 'My friend, you're too d-- free; 'I'm Stephen M., by thunder, White!' And, 'Yes?' the guardian said, with quite The self-same irritating stress Distinguishing his former yes. And still demurely as a mouse He twirled the key to that Upper House. Then Stephen, seeing his bluster vain Admittance to those halls to gain, Said, neighborly: 'Pray tell me. Pete, Does any one contest my seat?' The Saint replied: 'Nay, nay, not so; But you voted always wrong below: 'Whate'er the question, clear and high You're voice rang: '_I_,' '_I_,' ever '_I_.'' 645 Now indignation fired the heart Of that insulted immortal part. 'Die, wretch!' he cried, with blanching lip, And made a motion to his hip, With purpose murderous and hearty, To draw the Democratic party! He felt his fingers vainly slide Upon his unappareled hide (The dead arise from their 'silent tents' But not their late habiliments) Then wailed-the briefest of his speeches: 'I've left it in my other breeches!' ~ Ambrose Bierce,

1379:Where Does The Winter Go? There goes the Winter, sulkily slinking Somewhere behind the trees on the hill. He caught a vision of sweet Spring prinking In green before her mirror---the rill. And he turned away With his face quite grey, And he went without ever a glance behind him But I want to know Which way does he go, And does anyone ever try to find him? Is he caught to the sky in a burst of thunder And tucked away in the clouds to sleep? Or does he go down to the sea, I wonder, And fling himself out where the waves roll deep? Is he washed ashore After tossings sore, And found by some fisherman, pale and dying? On some lonely beach Beyond human reach Still and stark is poor Winter lying? Or climbs he up, with his grey head drooping, Yon purple mountain that hides the sun, And stooping and rising, rising and stooping, Digs a grave where never was one? And then lies down In his grey, pale gown A prayer on his lips, and his hands together? "What tears will they shed Because I am dead? They will dance on my grave all the bright Spring weather." Oh! Winter, Winter, my tears are falling, Are you glad of the tears of a little child? Though Spring is abroad and calling, calling, I cling to the edge of your cloak so wild. And I kiss your hand And I understand, And I smooth your proor grey head, low-lying, Ah! I cannot sing Just yet with the Spring 10 While Winter, Winter, is pale and dying. ~ Ethel Turner,

1380:A Waif My soul is like a poor caged bird to-night, Beating its wings against the prison bars, Longing to reach the outer world of light, And, all untrammelled, soar among the stars. Wild, mighty thoughts struggle within my soul For utterance. Great waves of passion roll Through all my being. As the lightnings play Through thunder clouds, so beams of blinding light Flash for a moment on my darkened brain Quick, sudden, glaring beams, that fade wawy And leave me in a darker, deeper night. Oh, poet sould! that struggle all in vain To live in peace and harmony with earth, It cannot be! They must endure the pain Of conscience and unacknoeledged worth, Moving and dwelling with the common herd, Whose highest thought has never strayed as far, Or never strayed beyond the horizon's bar; Whose narrow hearts and souls are never stirred With keenest pleasures, or with sharpest pain; Who rise and eat and sleep, and rise again, Nor question why or wherefore. Men whose minds Are never shaken by wild passion winds; Women whose broadest, deepeat realm of thought The bridal veil will cover. Who see not God's mighty work lying undone to-day, Work that a woman's hands can do as well, Oh, soul of mine; better to live alway In this tumultuous inward pain and strife, Doing the work that in thy reach doth fall, Weeping because thou canst not do it all; Oh, better, my soul, in this unrest to dwell, Than grovel as they grovel on through life. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

1381:Good morning," said the little prince. "Good morning," said the railway switchman. "What do you do here?" the little prince asked. "I sort out travelers, in bundles of a thousand," said the switchman. "I send off the trains that carry them: now to the right, now to the left." And a brilliantly lighted express train shook the switchman's cabin as it rushed by with a roar like thunder. "They are in a great hurry," said the little prince. "What are they looking for?" "Not even the locomotive engineer knows that," said the switchman. And a second brilliantly lighted express thundered by, in the opposite direction. "Are they coming back already?" demanded the little prince. "These are not the same ones," said the switchman. "It is an exchange." "Were they not satisfied where they were?" asked the little prince. "No one is ever satisfied where he is," said the switchman. And they heard the roaring thunder of a third brilliantly lighted express. "Are they pursuing the first travelers?" demanded the little prince. "They are pursuing nothing at all," said the switchman. "They are asleep in there, or if they are not asleep they are yawning. Only the children are flattening their noses against the windowpanes." "Only the children know what they are looking for," said the little prince. "They waste their time over a rag doll and it becomes very important to them; and if anybody takes it away from them, they cry . . ." "They are lucky," the switchman said. ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

1382:The Blazing Hat, Part Two This is the morning that we burnt a cardboard hat flames licking the inside of the brim This is the morning that the thunder hung like great black flags over the city stirred by gusts of wind This is the morning that they opened a new motorway leading from my house to yours This is the morning that I decided I wasn't getting enough roughage and went on a diet of broken milk bottles This is the morning that Death left her cloak behind after the party This is the morning that a beautiful schoolgirl woke me with a cup of coffee in a vision This is the morning that we saw words written on water This is the morning that beautiful girls with Renaissance faces played Hindemith records at dawn This is the morning after the night before This is the morning after the night had strewn Canning Street with purple toilet rolls This is the morning that we saw a q.­year­old boy whipping an imaginary blonde lovely This is the morning that Death was a letter that was never scented This is the morning that the poet reached out for the rolled­up Financial Times followed by a dreadful explosion This is the morning that you woke up 50 miles away seeing sunlight on the water and didn't think of me This is the morning that I bought 16 different kinds of artificial lilies­of­the­valley all of them smelling of you This is the morning that we sat and talked 38 by the embers of the blazing hat. ~ Adrian Henri,

1383:Came Those Who Saw And Loved Her Came those who saw and loved her, She was so fair to see! No whit their homage moved her, So proud she was, so free; But, ah, her soul was turning With strange and mystic yearning, With some divine discerning, Beyond them all–to me! As light to lids that quiver Throughout a night forlorn, She came–a royal giver– My temple to adorn; And my soul rose to meet her, To welcome her, to greet her, To name, proclaim, her sweeter And dearer than the morn: For her most rare devising Was mixed no common clay, Nor earthly form, disguising Its frailty for a day; But sun and shadow blended, And fire and love descended In one creation splendid Nor less superb than they. ..... You–of the finer moulding, You–of the clearer light, Whose spirit life, unfolding, Illumed my spirit's night, Stoop not to end my dreaming, [Page 286] To stain the vision gleaming, Or mar that glory, seeming Too high for touch or sight. Dear as the viewless portal Of dream embroidered sleep, Lift me to dreams immortal, Till, purified, I leap To hear the distant thunder Of dark veils rent asunder, And lose myself in wonder At mysteries so deep. Till, past the sombre meadows, Tearless and unafraid, Linked even in the shadows, Our deathless souls have strayed; And you, my soul's defender O valiant one and tender, Cry out to God's own splendour, 'Behold the man I made!' ~ Alan Sullivan,

1384:Foundations Of The State Observe, dear Lord, what lively pranks Are played by sentimental cranks! First this one mounts his hinder hoofs And brays the chimneys off the roofs; Then that one, with exalted voice, Expounds the thesis of his choice, Our understandings to bombard, Till all the window panes are starred! A third augments the vocal shock Till steeples to their bases rock, Confessing, as they humbly nod, They hear and mark the will of God. A fourth in oral thunder vents His awful penury of sense Till dogs with sympathetic howls, And lowing cows, and cackling fowls, Hens, geese, and all domestic birds, Attest the wisdom of his words. Cranks thus their intellects deflate Of theories about the State. This one avers 'tis built on Truth, And that on Temperance. This youth Declares that Science bears the pile; That graybeard, with a holy smile, Says Faith is the supporting stone; While women swear that Love alone Could so unflinchingly endure The heavy load. And some are sure The solemn vow of Christian Wedlock Is the indubitable bedrock. Physicians once about the bed Of one whose life was nearly sped Blew up a disputatious breeze About the cause of his disease: This, that and t' other thing they blamed. 'Tut, tut!' the dying man exclaimed, 'What made me ill I do not care; You've not an ounce of it, I'll swear. 275 And if you had the skill to make it I'd see you hanged before I'd take it!' ~ Ambrose Bierce,

1385:Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!   “Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth into battle — be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended in the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames in summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it —   For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimmage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!   We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.   (After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits.”   … ~ Smedley D Butler,

1386:Compensation In that new world toward which our feet are set, Shall we find aught to make our hearts forget Earth's homely joys and her bright hours of bliss? Has heaven a spell divine enough for this? For who the pleasure of the spring shall tell When on the leafless stalk the brown buds swell, When the grass brightens and the days grow long, And little birds break out in rippling song? O sweet the dropping eve, the blush of morn, The starlit sky, the rustling fields of corn, The soft airs blowing from the freshening seas, The sunflecked shadow of the stately trees, The mellow thunder and the lulling rain, The warm, delicious, happy summer rain, When the grass brightens and the days grow long, And little birds break out in rippling song! O beauty manifold, from morn till night, Dawn's flush, noon's blaze and sunset's tender light! O fair, familiar features, changes sweet Of her revolving seasons, storm and sleet And golden calm, as slow she wheels through space, From snow to roses, - and how dear her face, When the grass brightens, when the days grow long, And little birds break out in rippling song! O happy earth! O home so well beloved! What recompense have we, from thee removed? One hope we have that overtops the whole, The hope of finding every vanished soul, We love and long for daily, and for this Gladly we turn from thee, and all thy bliss, Even at thy loveliest, when the days are long, And little birds break out in rippling song. ~ Celia Thaxter,

1387:Familiar was good. Unfamiliar was bad. A soft scuffing came from beyond the old female’s crate. Maggie instantly lifted her head, and cocked her ears toward the sound. She recognized human footsteps, and understood two people were coming up the drive. Maggie hurried to the French doors and pushed her nose under the curtain. She heard a twig snap, brittle leaves being crushed, and the scuffing grow louder. Tree rats stopped moving to hide in their stillness. Maggie walked quickly to the side of the curtains, stuck her head under, and sampled more air. The footsteps stopped. She cocked her head, listening. She sniffed. She heard the soft metal-to-metal clack of the gate latch, caught their scent, and recognized the intruders. The strangers who had entered their crate had returned. Maggie erupted in a thunder of barking. She lunged against the glass, the fur on her back bristling from her tail to her shoulders. Crate in danger. Pack threatened. Her fury was a warning. She would drive off or kill whatever threatened her pack. She heard them running. “Maggie! Mags!” Scott came off the couch behind her, but she paid him no mind. She drove them harder, warning them. “What are you barking at?” The scuffing faded. Car doors slammed. An engine grew softer until it was gone. Scott pushed aside the curtains, and joined her. The threat was gone. Crate safe. Pack safe. Alpha safe. Her job was done. “Is someone out there?” Maggie gazed up at Scott with love and joy. She folded her ears and wagged her tail. She knew he was seeking danger in the darkness, but would find nothing. Maggie ~ Robert Crais,

1388:Another Fall Of Rain The weather had been sultry for a fortnight's time or more, And the shearers had been driving might and main, For some had got the century who'd ne'er got it before, And now all hands were wishing for the rain. For the boss is getting rusty and the ringer's caving in, For his bandaged wrist is aching with the pain, And the second man, I fear, will make it hot for him, Unless we have another fall of rain. A few had taken quarters and were coiling in their bunks When we shore the six-tooth wethers from the plain. And if the sheep get harder, then a few more men will funk, Unless we get another fall of rain. But the sky is clouding over, and the thunder's muttering loud, And the clouds are driving eastward o'er the plain, And I see the lightning flashing from the edge of yon black cloud, And I hear the gentle patter of the rain. So, lads, put on your stoppers, and let us to the hut, Where we'll gather round and have a friendly game, While some are playing music and some play ante up, And some are gazing outwards at the rain. But now the rain is over, let the pressers spin the screw, Let the teamsters back the waggons in again, And we'll block the classer's table by the way we'll put them through, For everything is merry since the rain. And the boss he won't be rusty when his sheep they all are shorn, And the wringer's wrist won't ache much with the pain Of pocketing his cheque for fifty pounds or more, And the second man will press him hard again. ~ Banjo Paterson,

1389:Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!" he said. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd. Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not, Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! ~ Alfred Tennyson,

1390: The Lost Boat At the way's end when the shore raised up its dim line and remote lights from the port glimmered, Then a cloud darkened the sky's brink and the wind's scream was the shrill laugh of a loosed demon And the huge passion of storm leaped with its bright stabs and the long crashing of death's thunder; As if haled by an unseen hand fled the boat lost on the wide homeless forlorn ocean. Is it Chance smites? is it Fate's irony? dead workings or blind purpose of brute Nature? Or man's own deeds that return back on his doomed head with a stark justice, a fixed vengeance? Or a dread Will from behind Life that regards pain and salutes death with a hard laughter? Is it God's might or a Force rules in this dense jungle of events, deeds and our thought's strivings? Yet perhaps sank not the bright lives and their glad venturings foiled, drowned in the grey ocean, But with long wandering they reached an unknown shore and a strange sun and a new azure, Amid bright splendour of beast glories and birds' music and deep hues, an enriched Nature And a new life that could draw near to divine meanings and touched close the concealed purpose. In a chance happening, fate's whims and the blind workings or dead drive of a brute Nature, In her dire Titan caprice, strength that to death drifts and to doom, hidden a Will labours. Not with one moment of sharp close or the slow fall of a dim curtain the play ceases: Yet is there Time to be crossed, lives to be lived out, the unplayed acts of the soul's drama. 580 ~ Sri Aurobindo, - The Lost Boat ,

1391:Can that even be considered as a color Which doesn’t compliment with your lip color Can that even be considered as a fragrance Which doesn’t halt in your hairs... Compared to you, this world feels so vague You will be mine, not anyone else’s Now this is clearly evident to everyone I announce that, As long as there’s mornings and evenings You will be mine As long as my name exists on this earth You will be mine As long as there’s mornings and evenings You will be mine As long as my name exists on this earth You will be mine I am your problem sometimes Also I am the solution to most of your problems Yes, I’m bit stubborn And of course I’m little bit crazy Rain, thunder, clouds are all liars Even the gifts of flowers are liars You are the truthful here, and of course me And all we speak are the truths Sign your name on my hand with your hands only Don’t hide your eyes with eyelashes Is it a big deal for you? Ok, I announce then, As long as there’s mornings and evenings You will be mine As long as my name exists on this earth You will be mine As long as there’s mornings and evenings You will be mine As long as my name exists on this earth You will be mine You’ll revolve around me all the time Just as the earth revolves around the sun You won’t find yourself separated from me You are my better half forever If you want, you can shatter my dreams Even if they break, they will still be yours Even you are aware of this... I announce that.................. ~ Anonymous,

1392:When o'er the chords thy fingers stray, My spirit leaves its mortal clay, A statue there I stand; Thy spell controls e'en life and death, As when the nerves a living breath Receive by Love's command! [1] More gently zephyr sighs along To listen to thy magic song; The systems formed by heavenly love To sing forever as they move, Pause in their endless-whirling round To catch the rapture-teeming sound; 'Tis for thy strains they worship thee, Thy look, enchantress, fetters me! From yonder chords fast-thronging come Soul-breathing notes with rapturous speed, As when from out their heavenly home The new-born seraphim proceed; The strains pour forth their magic might, As glittering suns burst through the night, When, by Creation's storm awoke, From chaos' giant-arm they broke. Now sweet, as when the silv'ry wave Delights the pebbly beach to lave; And now majestic as the sound Of rolling thunder gathering round; Now pealing more loudly, as when from yon height Descends the mad mountain-stream, foaming and bright; Now in a song of love Dying away, As through the aspen grove Soft zephyrs play: Now heavier and more mournful seems the strain, As when across the desert, death-like plain, Whence whispers dread and yells despairing rise, Cocytus' sluggish, wailing current sighs. Maiden fair, oh, answer me! Are not spirits leagued with thee? Speak they in the realms of bliss Other language e'er than this? ~ Friedrich Schiller, To Laura At The Harpsichord ,

1393:At The 'National Encampment' You 're grayer than one would have thought you: The climate you have over there In the East has apparently brought you Disorders affecting the hair, Which-pardon me-seems a thought spare. You'll not take offence at my giving Expression to notions like these. You might have been stronger if living Out here in our sanative breeze. It's unhealthy here for disease. No, I'm not as plump as a pullet. But that's the old wound, you see. Remember my paunching a bullet? And how that it didn't agree With-well, honest hardtack for me. Just pass me the wine-I've a helly And horrible kind of drouth! When a fellow has that in his belly Which didn't go in at his mouth He's hotter than all Down South! Great Scott! what a nasty day _that_ was When every galoot in our crack Division who didn't lie flat was Dissuaded from further attack By the bullet's felicitous whack. 'Twas there that our major slept under Some cannon of ours on the crest, Till they woke him by stilling their thunder, And he cursed them for breaking his rest, And died in the midst of his jest. That night-it was late in November The dead seemed uncommonly chill To the touch; and one chap I remember 195 Who took it exceedingly ill When I dragged myself over his bill. Well, comrades, I'm off now-good morning. Your talk is as pleasant as pie, But, pardon me, one word of warning: Speak little of self, say I. That's my way. God bless you. Good-bye. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

1394:Past the despairing wail And the bright banquets of the Elysian vale Melt every care away! Delight, that breathes and moves forever, Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river! Elysian life survey! There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads, His merry west-winds blithely leads The ever-blooming May! Through gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the hours, In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers, And truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day. And joy to-day and joy to-morrow, But wafts the airy soul aloft; The very name is lost to sorrow, And pain is rapture tuned more exquisitely soft. Here the pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb, And forgets in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim, The load he shall bear never more; Here the mower, his sickle at rest, by the streams, Lulled with harp-strings, reviews, in the calm of his dreams, The fields, when the harvest is o'er. Here, he, whose ears drank in the battle roar, Whose banners streamed upon the startled wind A thunder-storm,before whose thunder tread The mountains trembled,in soft sleep reclined, By the sweet brook that o'er its pebbly bed In silver plays, and murmurs to the shore, Hears the stern clangor of wild spears no more! Here the true spouse the lost-beloved regains, And on the enamelled couch of summer-plains Mingles sweet kisses with the zephyr's breath. Here, crowned at last, love never knows decay, Living through ages its one bridal day, Safe from the stroke of death! ~ Friedrich Schiller, Elysium ,

1395:In Praise Of Contentment (HORACE'S ODES, III, I) I hate the common, vulgar herd! Away they scamper when I 'booh' 'em! But pretty girls and nice young men Observe a proper silence when I chose to sing my lyrics to 'em. The kings of earth, whose fleeting pow'r Excites our homage and our wonder, Are precious small beside old Jove, The father of us all, who drove The giants out of sight, by thunder! This man loves farming, that man law, While this one follows pathways martial-What moots it whither mortals turn? Grim fate from her mysterious urn Doles out the lots with hand impartial. Nor sumptuous feasts nor studied sports Delight the heart by care tormented; The mightiest monarch knoweth not The peace that to the lowly cot Sleep bringeth to the swain contented. On him untouched of discontent Care sits as lightly as a feather; He doesn't growl about the crops, Or worry when the market drops, Or fret about the changeful weather. Not so with him who, rich in fact, Still seeks his fortune to redouble; Though dig he deep or build he high, Those scourges twain shall lurk anigh-Relentless Care, relentless Trouble! If neither palaces nor robes 174 Nor unguents nor expensive toddy Insure Contentment's soothing bliss, Why should I build an edifice Where Envy comes to fret a body? Nay, I'd not share your sumptuous cheer, But rather sup my rustic pottage, While that sweet boon the gods bestow-The peace your mansions cannot know-Blesseth my lowly Sabine cottage. ~ Eugene Field,

1396:He felt of Emma’s forehead. “She’s still a mite warm.” He turned. “I’ll ride for Doc Foster.” At that moment, a peal of thunder cracked overhead. Emma jerked but didn’t waken. McKenna hastily soothed her back to sleep and caught Wyatt at the front door. Already in his duster again, she grabbed his arm. “She doesn’t need Dr. Foster, Wyatt. Her fever’s breaking.” He reached for the door, not seeming to hear her. She reached up and took his face in her hands. He stilled. “Emma’s going to be okay. Her fever’s breaking.” His face was a mixture of pain and fear, and suddenly his actions made more sense to her. “Did your Bethany die of fever?” she whispered, already seeing the answer in his eyes. “I can’t—” His voice caught. “I can’t lose another child that way.” She hugged him to her as tight as she could, wanting him to feel every part of her loving him. “You won’t. You won’t lose Emma.” He lifted her face to his, and McKenna met his kiss and returned it. “You’re sure she’s all right?” he said. McKenna nodded. “Yes, but . . .” She looked down and away. “I did something I shouldn’t have done.” “What? What did you do?” Shame poured through her. “Emma kept crying for Janie, asking for her mama.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t console her, her fever was high.” She closed her eyes. “I told her that . . . I was her mama. I know it was wrong. I don’t want her to forget Janie, it’s just that—” “You remember that night, McKenna,” he said, his voice soft, “when Janie asked you to take care of her?” She nodded. “I’ll never forget it.” “Janie asked you to take her . . . and make her your own. Those were her exact words. ~ Tamera Alexander,

1397:Political and indeed private life was governed by a web of religious rules and procedures, predictions and omens. Religion was not so much a set of personal beliefs as precisely laid-down ways of living in harmony with the expectations of the gods. In fact, by the end of the Republic educated men believed less in the literal truth of the apparatus of religious doctrine than in a vaguer notion of the validity of tradition. The basic proposition was that no human enterprise could be undertaken without divine sanction. This applied to domestic households as well as to state affairs. The gods worked through natural phenomena to reveal their wishes or intentions. Signs included the flight or songs of birds, the activities of animals and thunder and lightning. It was also possible to attach significance to words or phrases casually spoken. The College of Augurs had the sole right of interpreting the auspices. (Like the College of Pontiffs, it comprised leading personalities of the Roman establishment and Cicero became a member towards the end of his career.) An Augur would mark off a rectangular space, called a templum (the origin of the word “temple”), from which he would conduct his observations. In some places permanent templa were identified, one of which was on the citadel on the Capitol Hill. Signs from the east (usually on the Augur’s left) were held to be favorable and those from the west unfavorable. In addition, Etruscan soothsayers, or haruspices, were often called to Rome to explain apparently supernatural events and gave judgments based on an examination of the entrails of sacrificed animals. ~ Anthony Everitt,

1398:To his Own Beloved Self The Author Dedicates These Lines" Six. Ponderous. The chimes of a clock. “Render unto Caesar ... render unto God...” But where’s someone like me to dock? Where’11 I find a lair? Were I like the ocean of oceans little, on the tiptoes of waves I’d rise, I’d strain, a tide, to caress the moon. Where to find someone to love of my size, the sky too small for her to fit in? Were I poor as a multimillionaire, it’d still be tough. What’s money for the soul? – thief insatiable. The gold of all the Californias isn’t enough for my desires’ riotous horde. I wish I were tongue-tied, like Dante or Petrarch, able to fire a woman’s heart, reduce it to ashes with verse-filled pages! My words and my love form a triumphal arch: through it, in all their splendour, leaving no trace, will pass the inamoratas of all the ages! Were I as quiet as thunder, how I’d wail and whine! One groan of mine would start the world’s crumbling cloister shivering. And if I’d end up by roaring with all of its power of lungs and more – the comets, distressed, would wring their hands and from the sky’s roof leap in a fever. If I were dim as the sun, night I’d drill with the rays of my eyes, and also all by my lonesome, radiant self build up the earth’s shriveled bosom. On I’ll pass, dragging my huge love behind me. On what feverish night, deliria-ridden, by what Goliaths was I begot – I, so big and by no one needed? ~ Vladimir Mayakovsky,

1399:author class:Sri Aurobindo To the Sea O grey wild sea, Thou hast a message, thunderer, for me. Their huge wide backs Thy monstrous billows raise, abysmal cracks Dug deep between. One pale boat flutters over them, hardly seen. I hear thy roar Call me, "Why dost thou linger on the shore With fearful eyes Watching my tops visit their foam-washed skies? This trivial boat Dares my vast battering billows and can float. Death if it find, Are there not many thousands left behind? Dare my wide roar, Nor cling like cowards to the easy shore. Come down and know What rapture lives in danger and o'erthrow." Yes, thou great sea, I am more mighty and outbillow thee. On thy tops I rise; 'Tis an excuse to dally with the skies. I sink below The bottom of the clamorous world to know. On the safe land To linger is to lose what God has planned For man's wide soul, Who set eternal godhead for its goal. Therefore He arrayed Danger and difficulty like seas and made Pain and defeat, And put His giant snares around our feet. The cloud He informs With thunder and assails us with His storms, That man may grow King over pain and victor of o'erthrow Matching his great Unconquerable soul with adverse Fate. Take me, be My way to climb the heavens, thou rude great sea. I will seize thy mane, O lion, I will tame thee and disdain; Or else below Into thy salt abysmal caverns go, Receive thy weight Upon me and be stubborn as my Fate. I come, O Sea, To measure my enormous self with thee. ~ Sri Aurobindo, - To the Sea ,

1400: THERE was a wooer blithe and gay, A son of France was he,-- Who in his arms for many a day, As though his bride were she, A poor young maiden had caress'd, And fondly kiss'd, and fondly press'd, And then at length deserted. When this was told the nut-brown maid, Her senses straightway fled; She laugh'd and wept, and vow'd and pray'd, And presently was dead. The hour her soul its farewell took, The boy was sad, with terror shook, Then sprang upon his charger. He drove his spurs into his side, And scour'd the country round; But wheresoever he might ride, No rest for him was found. For seven long days and nights he rode, It storm'd, the waters overflow'd, It bluster'd, lighten'd, thunder'd. On rode he through the tempest's din, Till he a building spied; In search of shelter crept he in, When he his steed had tied. And as he groped his doubtful way, The ground began to rock and sway,-- He fell a hundred fathoms. When he recover'd from the blow, He saw three lights pass by; He sought in their pursuit to go, The lights appear'd to fly. They led his footsteps all astray, Up, down, through many a narrow way Through ruin'd desert cellars. When lo! he stood within a hall, With hollow eyes. and grinning all; They bade him taste the fare. A hundred guests sat there. He saw his sweetheart 'midst the throng, Wrapp'd up in grave-clothes white and long; She turn'd, and---- ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Faithless Boy ,

1401:His mother is dead. She was a suicide. Her marriage was terrifying to her. In the center of it she found herself completely alone. During the last year she sent long telegrams to her sister, sometimes quoting poetry, Swinburne, Blake. One day she burned her diaries, a spring day, and walked into the Connecticut River to drown, just like Virginia Woolf or Madame Magritte. She was buried in Boston, her home. I could see the ceremony. Dean is six years old and his sister three. They stand stunned and obedient as the great, glistening coffin is lowered into the ground. Within lies the drowned woman who had given them life and who now gives an example of melancholy and commitment which will stay with them forever. Clods of earth thunder onto the hollow lid and, half-orphan, bearer of his mother’s death which is not yet even real, he begins his life. Much of it you know, at any rate college, the wanderings. Now, at twenty-four, he has come to the time of choice. I know quite well how all that is. And then, I read his letters. His father writes to him in the most beautiful, educated hand, the born hand of a copyist. Admonitions to confront life, to think a little more seriously about this or that. I could have laughed. Words that meant nothing to him. He has already set out on a dazzling voyage which is more like an illness, becoming ever more distant, more legendary. His life will be filled with those daring impulses which cause him to disappear and next be heard of in Dublin, in Veracruz… I am not telling the truth about Dean, I am inventing him. I am creating him out of my own inadequacies, you must always remember that. ~ James Salter,

1402:The wild. I have drunk it, deep and raw, and heard it's primal, unforgettable roar. We know it in our dreams, when our mind is off the leash, running wild. 'Outwardly, the equivalent of the unconscious is the wilderness: both of these terms meet, one step even further on, as one,' wrote Gary Snyder. 'It is in vain to dream of a wildness distinct from ourselves. There is none such,' wrote Thoreau. 'It is the bog in our brains and bowls, the primitive vigor of Nature in us, that inspires the dream.' And as dreams are essential to the psyche, wildness is to life. We are animal in our blood and in our skin. We were not born for pavements and escalators but for thunder and mud. More. We are animal not only in body but in spirit. Our minds are the minds of wild animals. Artists, who remember their wildness better than most, are animal artists, lifting their heads to sniff a quick wild scent in the air, and they know it unmistakably, they know the tug of wildness to be followed through your life is buckled by that strange and absolute obedience. ('You must have chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star,' wrote Nietzsche.) Children know it as magic and timeless play. Shamans of all sorts and inveterate misbehavers know it; those who cannot trammel themselves into a sensible job and life in the suburbs know it. What is wild cannot be bought or sold, borrowed or copied. It is. Unmistakeable, unforgettable, unshamable, elemental as earth and ice, water, fire and air, a quitessence, pure spirit, resolving into no contituents. Don't waste your wildness: it is precious and necessary. ~ Jay Griffiths,

1403:Exhortation: Summer 1919 Through the pregnant universe rumbles life's terrific thunder, And Earth's bowels quake with terror; strange and terrible storms break, Lightning-torches flame the heavens, kindling souls of men, thereunder: Africa! long ages sleeping, O my motherland, awake! In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking, And its golden glory fills the western skies. O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise! For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking, Ghosts are turned flesh, throwing off the grave's disguise, And the foolish, even children, are made wise; For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making-O my brothers, dreaming for dim centuries, Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes! Oh the night is sweet for sleeping, but the shining day's for working; Sons of the seductive night, for your children's children's sake, From the deep primeval forests where the crouching leopard's lurking, Lift your heavy-lidded eyes, Ethiopia! awake! In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking, And its golden glory fills the western skies. O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise! For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking, Ghosts have turned flesh, throwing off the grave's disguise, And the foolish, even children, are made wise; For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making-O my brothers, dreaming for long centuries, Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes! ~ Claude McKay,

1404:The Last Leap ALL is over! fleet career, Dash of greyhound slipping thongs, Flight of falcon, bound of deer, Mad hoof-thunder in our rear, Cold air rushing up our lungs, Din of many tongues. Once again, one struggle good, One vain effort;—he must dwell Near the shifted post, that stood Where the splinters of the wood, Lying in the torn tracks, tell How he struck and fell. Crest where cold drops beaded cling, Small ear drooping, nostril full, Glazing to a scarlet ring, Flanks and haunches quivering, Sinews stiffening, void and null, Dumb eyes sorrowful. Satin coat that seems to shine Duller now, black braided tress That a softer hand than mine Far away was wont to twine, That in meadows far from this Softer lips might kiss. All is over! this is death, And I stand to watch thee die, Brave old horse! with bated breath Hardly drawn through tight-clenched teeth, Lip indented deep, but eye Only dull and dry. Musing on the husk and chaff Gathered where life’s tares are sown, Thus I speak, and force a laugh, That is half a sneer and half 259 An involuntary groan, In a stifled tone— ‘Rest, old friend! thy day, though rife With its toil, hath ended soon; We have had our share of strife, Tumblers in the masque of life, In the pantomime of noon Clown and pantaloon. ‘With a flash that ends thy pain, Respite and oblivion blest Come to greet thee. I in vain Fall: I rise to fall again: Thou hast fallen to thy rest— And thy fall is best ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

1405:In a solemn tone, like a priest chanting a mass, beating time in the air with a stiff finger, Slote quoted: " 'The German Revolution will not prove any milder or gentler because it was preceded by the Critique of Kant, by the Transcendental Idealism of Fichte.  These doctrines served to develop revolutionary forces  that only await their time to break forth.  Christianity subdued the brutal warrior passion of the Germans, but it could not quench it. When the Cross, that restraining talisman, falls to pieces, then  will break forth again the frantic Berserker rage.  The old stone gods will then arise from the forgotten ruins and wipe from their eyes the dust of centuries.  Thor with his giant hammer will arise again, and he will shatter the Gothic cathedrals.' " Slote made an awkward, weak gesture with a fist to represent a hammerblow, and went on: " 'Smile not at the dreamer who warns you against Kantians, Fichteans, and the other philosophers.  Smile not at the fantasy of one who foresees in the region of reality the same outburst of revolution that has taken place in the region of intellect.  The thought precedes the deed as the lightning the thunder.  German thunder is of true German character.  It is not very nimble but rumbles along somewhat slowly.  But come it will. And when you hear a crashing such as never before has been heard in the world's history, then know that at last the German thunderbolt has fallen.' "Heine - the Jew who composed the greatest German poetry, and who fell in love with German philosophy - Heine wrote that," Slote said in a quieter tone. "He wrote that a hundred and six years ago. ~ Herman Wouk,

1406:AFTER THE DELUGE AS SOON as the idea of the Deluge had subsided, A hare stopped in the clover and swaying flower-bells, and said a prayer to the rainbow, through the spider’s web. Oh! the precious stones that began to hide,—and the flowers that already looked around. In the dirty main street, stalls were set up and boats were hauled toward the sea, high tiered as in old prints. Blood flowed at Blue Beard’s,—through slaughterhouses, in circuses, where the windows were blanched by God’s seal. Blood and milk flowed. Beavers built. “Mazagrans” smoked in the little bars. In the big glass house, still dripping, children in mourning looked at the marvelous pictures. A door banged; and in the village square the little boy waved his arms, understood by weather vanes and cocks on steeples everywhere, in the bursting shower. Madame *** installed a piano in the Alps. Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral. Caravans set out. And Hotel Splendid was built in the chaos of ice and of the polar night. Ever after the moon heard jackals howling across the deserts of thyme, and eclogues in wooden shoes growling in the orchard. Then in the violet and budding forest, Eucharis told me it was spring. Gush, pond,—Foam, roll on the bridge and over the woods;—black palls and organs, lightning and thunder, rise and roll;—waters and sorrows rise and launch the Floods again. For since they have been dissipated—oh! the precious stones being buried and the opened flowers!—it’s unbearable! and the Queen, the Witch who lights her fire in the earthen pot will never tell us what she knows, and what we do not know. ~ Arthur Rimbaud,

1407:Lora, beloved. Lora of the moon and sky. You are a dragon.” Ah, sighed the fiend, swelling with delight inside me, filled with an awful, awful recognition. Ah, ah! AH! “That is enough,” I shouted over them both; rather, I tried to shout, but my voice was so strangled it came more as a gasp. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I don’t appreciate your games. I-I came here to tell you to stop pestering me, and leaving me gifts, and smiling at me-“ “You dream of flying,” Jesse said, which cut me off midsentence. “Aye.” He nodded, shadows and gold, tall and warm and much too near. “I know all about it. I know all about you. You have wings at night. You lift as smoke. And you come to me, don’t you? Always to me.” I could not reply. I could barely take a breath. This is a dream, this is all still a dream, it’s just a new part to the dream, that’s all- “It’s why you’re here now, tonight. You’re drawn to me, as fiercely as I am to you. You didn’t even have to follow my song this time. I muted it, didn’t you notice? And you came anyway.” For a long, long moment, I gave up on breathing. For a long, long moment, all I heard was my heartbeat and his, and a gull crying miles away, and the distant thunder of a German bomb exploding on innocent ground. Jesse lifted a hand and placed it on my arm. His palm felt hot against the cotton of my sleeve, his fingers felt firm, and that rush of longing and pleasure that always overtook me at his touch began to build. “Lora,” he whispered again, so quiet it was barely a sound. “Inhale.” And when I did, he bent his head to kiss me. ~ Shana Abe,

1408:1033 The Wind Begun To Knead The Grass 824 [first version] The Wind begun to knead the Grass— As Women do a Dough— He flung a Hand full at the Plain— A Hand full at the Sky— The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees— And started all abroad— The Dust did scoop itself like Hands— And throw away the Road— The Wagons—quickened on the Street— The Thunders gossiped low— The Lightning showed a Yellow Head— And then a livid Toe— The Birds put up the Bars to Nests— The Cattle flung to Barns— Then came one drop of Giant Rain— And then, as if the Hands That held the Dams—had parted hold— The Waters Wrecked the Sky— But overlooked my Father's House— Just Quartering a Tree— [second version] The Wind begun to rock the Grass With threatening Tunes and low— He threw a Menace at the Earth— A Menace at the Sky. The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees— And started all abroad The Dust did scoop itself like Hands And threw away the Road. The Wagons quickened on the Streets The Thunder hurried slow— 1034 The Lightning showed a Yellow Beak And then a livid Claw. The Birds put up the Bars to Nests— The Cattle fled to Barns— There came one drop of Giant Rain And then as if the Hands That held the Dams had parted hold The Waters Wrecked the Sky, But overlooked my Father's House— Just quartering a Tree— ~ Emily Dickinson,

1409:Who is obsessed by religion He is blind He only kills and gets killed. Even an atheist is blessed Because he doesnt have the vanity of any faith. Humbly he lights up his reason Defies the authority of scriptures And seeks only the good of men. He who kills as infidels The followers of other faiths Dishonours his own faith He kills the son in the name of the father Busy only with the rituals He loses his reason He hoists a blood-stained flag in his temple In the name of God He worships the Devil. Those who have retained in their creed The shame of ages, the cruelties and barbarities With those rubbish They are building their own prison I hear a bugle is blowing The bugle of universal doom With his scythe the god of destruction is coming. Planting him as a stake who comes to liberate Putting him up like a dividing wall who comes to unite Flooding the world with poison in his name Who brings love from a divine source They drown sailing in a boat they themselves have scuttled Yet they blame someone else! I invoke you O you the supreme judge Please come to end this degeneration of religion Save those who are deluded by their faith. Your altar they have flooded with blood Please completely break it Hurl your thunder at the prison walls of faiths And bring to this cursed land The light of reason. This transcreation of Tagore's poem Dharmamoha is by Kumud Biswas. The original is from the collection Parishesh. Translated by Kumud Biswas ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Religious Obsession -- translation from Dharmamoha ,

1410:Let me give you a word of the philosophy of reform. The whole history of the progress of human liberty shows that all concessions yet made to her august claims, have been born of earnest struggle. The conflict has been exciting, agitating, all-absorbing, and for the time being, putting all other tumults to silence. It must do this or it does nothing. If there is no struggle there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground, they want rain without thunder and lightening. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters." "This struggle may be a moral one, or it may be a physical one, and it may be both moral and physical, but it must be a struggle. Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will. Find out just what any people will quietly submit to and you have found out the exact measure of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them, and these will continue till they are resisted with either words or blows, or with both. The limits of tyrants are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress. In the light of these ideas, Negroes will be hunted at the North, and held and flogged at the South so long as they submit to those devilish outrages, and make no resistance, either moral or physical. Men may not get all they pay for in this world; but they must certainly pay for all they get. If we ever get free from the oppressions and wrongs heaped upon us, we must pay for their removal. We must do this by labor, by suffering, by sacrifice, and if needs be, by our lives and the lives of others. ~ Frederick Douglass,

1411:Mystery the moon A hole in the sky A supernatural nightlight So full but often right A pair of eyes, a closin' one, A chosen child of golden sun A marble dog that chases cars To farthest reaches of the beach and far beyond into the swimming sea of stars A cosmic fish they love to kiss They're giving birth to constellation No riffs and oh, no reservation. If they should fall you get a wish or dedication May I suggest you get the best For nothing less than you and I Let's take a chance as this romance is rising over before we lose the lighting Oh bella bella please Bella you beautiful luna Oh bella do what you do Do do do do do You are an illuminating anchor Of leagues to infinite number Crashing waves and breaking thunder Tiding the ebb and flows of hunger You're dancing naked there for me You expose all memory You make the most of boundary You're the ghost of royalty imposing love You are the queen and king combining everything Intertwining like a ring around the finger of a girl I'm just a singer, you're the world All I can bring ya Is the language of a lover Bella luna, my beautiful, beautiful moon How you swoon me like no other May I suggest you get the best Of your wish may I insist That no contest for little you or smaller I A larger chance happened, all them they lie On the rise, on the brink of our lives Bella please Bella you beautiful luna Oh bella do what you do Bella luna, my beautiful, beautiful moon How you swoon me like no other, oh oh oh ((Bella Luna)) ~ Jason Mraz,

1412:The Child In Our Soul Toward God in heaven spacious With artless faith a boy looks free, As toward his mother gracious, And top of Christmas-tree. But early in the storm of youth There wounds him deep the serpent's tooth; His childhood's faith is doubted And flouted. Soon stands in radiant splendor With bridal wreath his boyhood's dream; Her loving eyes and tender The light of heaven's faith stream. As by his mother's knee of yore God's name he stammers yet once more, The rue of tears now paying And praying. When now life's conflict stirring Leads him along through doubtings wild, Then upward points unerring Close by his side his child. With children he a child is still And whatsoe'er his heart may chill, Prayer for his son is warming, Transforming. The greatest man in wonder Must ward the child within his breast, And list 'mid loudest thunder Its whisperings unrepressed. Where oft a hero fell with shame, The child it was restored his name, His better self revealing, And healing. All great things thought created In child-like joy sprang forth and grew; All strength with goodness mated, 152 Obeyed the child's voice true. When beauty in the soul held sway, The child gave it in artless play;All wisdom worldly-minded Is blinded. Hail him, who forward presses So far that he a home is worth For there alone possesses The child-life peace on earth. Though worn we grieve and hardened grow, What solace 't is our home to know With children's laughter ringing And singing. ~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson,

1413:Charge Of The Light Brigade HALF a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns! ' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade! ' Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. 56 Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1414:The Charge Of The Light Brigade Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man dismay'd ? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. 571 Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade ? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1415:Like the old knights, always in warfare, not always on their steeds dashing forward with their lances in rest to unhorse an adversary, but always wearing their weapons where they could readily reach them, and always ready to encounter wounds or death for the sake of the cause which they championed. Those grim warriors often slept in their armour; so even when we sleep, we are still to be in the spirit of prayer, so that if perchance we wake in the night we may still be with God. Our soul, having received the divine centripetal influence which makes it seek its heavenly centre, should be evermore naturally rising towards God himself. Our heart is to be like those beacons and watchtowers which were prepared along the coast of England when the invasion of the Armada was hourly expected, not always blazing, but with the wood always dry, and the match always there, the whole pile being ready to blaze up at the appointed moment. Our souls should be in such a condition that ejaculatory prayer should be very frequent with us. No need to pause in business and leave the counter, and fall down upon the knees; the spirit should send up its silent, short, swift petitions to the throne of grace. A Christian should carry the weapon of all prayer like a drawn sword in his hand. We should never sheathe our supplications. Never may our hearts be like an unlimbered gun, with everything to be done to it before it can thunder on the foe, but it should be like a piece of cannon, loaded and primed, only requiring the fire that it may be discharged. The soul should be not always in the exercise of prayer, but always in the energy of prayer; not always actually praying, but always intentionally praying.1 ~ John F MacArthur Jr,

1416:I never cared for poetry," I said. "Your loss," Sim said absently as he turned a few pages. "Eld Vintic poetry's thunderous. It pounds at you." "What's the meter like?"I asked, curious despite myself. "I don't know anything about meter," Simmon said distractedly he ran his finger down the page in front of him. "It's like this: "Sought we the Scrivani word-work of Surthur Long-lost in ledger all hope forgotten Yet fast-found for friendship fair the book-bringer Hot comes the huntress Fela, flushed with finding Breathless her breast her high blood rising To ripen the red-cheek rouge-bloom of beauty. "That sort of thing," Simmon said absently, his eyes still scanning the pages in front of him. I saw Fela turn her head to look at Simmon, almost as if she were surprised to see him sitting there. No, it was almost s if up until that point, he'd just been occupying space around her, like a piece of furniture. But this time when she looked at him, she took all of him in. His sandy hair, the line of his jaw, the span of his shoulders beneath his shirt. This time when she looked, she actually *saw* him. Let me say this. It was worth the whole awful , irritating time spent searching the Archives just to watch that moment happen. It was worth blood and the fear of death to see her fall in love with him. Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love, so light she probably didn't notice it herself. It wasn't dramatic, like some bolt of lightning with a crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and the spark fades almost fast for you to see. But still, you know it's there, down where you can't see, kindling. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

1417:You said it was twenty feet!” “Yeah. You’ll have to trust me. Put your arms around my neck and hang on.” “How can you possibly—” “There!” cried a voice behind them. “Kill the ungrateful tourists!” The children of Nyx had found them. Annabeth wrapped her arms around Percy’s neck. “Go!” With her eyes closed, she could only guess how he managed it. Maybe he used the force of the river somehow. Maybe he was just scared out of his mind and charged with adrenaline. Percy leaped with more strength than she would have thought possible. They sailed through the air as the river churned and wailed below them, splashing Annabeth’s bare ankles with stinging brine. Then—CLUMP. They were on solid ground again. “You can open your eyes,” Percy said, breathing hard. “But you won’t like what you see.” Annabeth blinked. After the darkness of Nyx, even the dim red glow of Tartarus seemed blinding. Before them stretched a valley big enough to fit the San Francisco Bay. The booming noise came from the entire landscape, as if thunder were echoing from beneath the ground. Under poisonous clouds, the rolling terrain glistened purple with dark red and blue scar lines. “It looks like…” Annabeth fought down her revulsion. “Like a giant heart.” “The heart of Tartarus,” Percy murmured. The center of the valley was covered with a fine black fuzz of peppery dots. They were so far away, it took Annabeth a moment to realize she was looking at an army—thousands, maybe tens of thousands of monsters, gathered around a central pinpoint of darkness. It was too far to see any details, but Annabeth had no doubt what the pinpoint was. Even from the edge of the valley, Annabeth could feel its power tugging at her soul. “The Doors of Death. ~ Rick Riordan,

1418:The Seed-At-Zero The seed-at-zero shall not storm That town of ghosts, the trodden womb, With her rampart to his tapping, No god-in-hero tumble down Like a tower on the town Dumbly and divinely stumbling Over the manwaging line. The seed-at-zero shall not storm That town of ghosts, the manwaged tomb With her rampart to his tapping, No god-in-hero tumble down Like a tower on the town Dumbly and divinely leaping Over the warbearing line. Through the rampart of the sky Shall the star-flanked seed be riddled, Manna for the rumbling ground, Quickening for the riddled sea; Settled on a virgin stronghold He shall grapple with the guard And the keeper of the key. May a humble village labour And a continent deny? A hemisphere may scold him And a green inch be his bearer; Let the hero seed find harbour, Seaports by a drunken shore Have their thirsty sailors hide him. May be a humble planet labour And a continent deny? A village green may scold him And a high sphere be his bearer; Let the hero seed find harbour, Seaports by a thirsty shore Have their drunken sailors hide him. 147 Man-in-seed, in seed-at-zero, From the foreign fields of space, Shall not thunder on the town With a star-flanked garrison, Nor the cannons of his kingdom Shall the hero-in-tomorrow Range on the sky-scraping place. Man-in-seed, in seed-at-zero, From the star-flanked fields of space, Thunders on the foreign town With a sand-bagged garrison, Nor the cannons of his kingdom Shall the hero-in-to-morrow Range from the grave-groping place. ~ Dylan Thomas,

1419:The Mediterranean Where we went in the boat was a long bay a slingshot wide, walled in by towering stone-Peaked margin of antiquity's delay, And we went there out of time's monotone: Where we went in the black hull no light moved But a gull white-winged along the feckless wave, The breeze, unseen but fierce as a body loved, That boat drove onward like a willing slave: Where we went in the small ship the seaweed Parted and gave to us the murmuring shore And we made feast and in our secret need Devoured the very plates Aeneas bore: Where derelict you see through the low twilight The green coast that you, thunder-tossed, would win, Drop sail, and hastening to drink all night Eat dish and bowl--to take that sweet land in! Where we feasted and caroused on the sandless Pebbles, affecting our day of piracy, What prophecy of eaten plates could landless Wanderers fulfil by the ancient sea? We for that time might taste the famous age Eternal here yet hidden from our eyes When lust of power undid its stuffless rage; They, in a wineskin, bore earth's paradise. Let us lie down once more by the breathing side Of Ocean, where our live forefathers sleep As if the Known Sea still were a month wide-Atlantis howls but is no longer steep! What country shall we conquer, what fair land Unman our conquest and locate our blood? We've cracked the hemispheres with careless hand! Now, from the Gates of Hercules we flood 93 Westward, westward till the barbarous brine Whelms us to the tired land where tasseling corn, Fat beans, grapes sweeter than muscadine Rot on the vine: in that land were we born. ~ Allen Tate,

1420:To A Canadian Aviator Who Died For His Country In France Tossed like a falcon from the hunter's wrist, A sweeping plunge, a sudden shattering noise, And thou hast dared, with a long spiral twist, The elastic stairway to the rising sun. Peril below thee and above, peril Within thy car; but peril cannot daunt Thy peerless heart: gathering wing and poise, Thy plane transfigured, and thy motor-chant Subduéd to a whisper -- then a silence, -And thou art but a disembodied venture In the void. But Death, who has learned to fly, Still matchless when his work is to be done, Met thee between the armies and the sun; Thy speck of shadow faltered in the sky; Then thy dead engine and thy broken wings Drooped through the arc and passed in fire, A wreath of smoke -- a breathless exhalation. But ere that came a vision sealed thine eyes, Lulling thy senses with oblivion; And from its sliding station in the skies Thy dauntless soul upward in circles soared To the sublime and purest radiance whence it sprang. In all their eyries, eagles shall mourn thy fate, And leaving on the lonely crags and scaurs Their unprotected young, shall congregate High in the tenuous heaven and anger the sun With screams, and with a wild audacity Dare all the battle danger of thy flight; Till weary with combat one shall desert the light, Fall like a bolt of thunder and check his fall On the high ledge, smoky with mist and cloud, Where his neglected eaglets shriek aloud, And drawing the film across his sovereign sight Shall dream of thy swift soul immortal 140 Mounting in circles, faithful beyond death. ~ Duncan Campbell Scott,

1421:A wave formed, swelling around Ariel's body. It lifted her up higher and higher- or maybe she herself was growing: it was hard to tell. She held the trident aloft. Storm clouds raced to her from all directions like a lost school of cichlid babies flicking to their father's mouth for protection. Lightning coursed through the sky and danced between the trident's tines. Ariel sang a song of rage. Notes rose and fell discordantly, her voice screeching at times like a banshee from the far north. She sang, and the wind sang with her. It whipped her hair out of its braids and pulled tresses into tentacles that billowed around her head. She sang of the unfairness of Eric's fate and her own, of her father's torture as a polyp, even of Scuttle's mortal life, slowly but visibly slipping away. Mostly she sang about Ursula. She sang about everyone whose lives had been touched and destroyed by evil like coral being killed and bleached, like dead spots in the ocean from algae blooms, like scale rot. She sang about what she would do to anyone who threatened those she loved and protected. And then, with her final note, she made a quick thrust as if to throw the trident toward the boats in the bay, pulling it back at the last moment. A clap louder than thunder echoed across the ocean. A wave even larger than the one she rode roared up from the depths of the open sea. It smashed through and around her, leaving her hair and body white with foam. She grinned fiercely at the power of the moment. The tsunami continued on, making straight for Tirulia. But... despite her rage... underneath it all the queen was still Ariel. Her momentary urge to destroy everything came and went like a single flash of summer lightning. ~ Liz Braswell,

1422:I. The waters are flashing, The white hail is dashing, The lightnings are glancing, The hoar-spray is dancing Away! The whirlwind is rolling, The thunder is tolling, The forest is swinging, The minster bells ringing-- Come away! The Earth is like Ocean, Wreck-strewn and in motion: Bird, beast, man and worm Have crept out of the storm-- Come away! II. 'Our boat has one sail And the helmsman is pale;-- A bold pilot I trow, Who should follow us now,'-- Shouted he-- And she cried: 'Ply the oar! Put off gaily from shore!'-- As she spoke, bolts of death Mixed with hail, specked their path Oer the sea. And from isle, tower and rock, The blue beacon-cloud broke, And though dumb in the blast, The red cannon flashed fast From the lee. III. And 'Fear'st thou?' and 'Fear'st thou?' And Seest thou?' and 'Hear'st thou?' And 'Drive we not free O'er the terrible sea, I and thou?' One boat-cloak did cover The loved and the lover-- Their blood beats one measure, They murmur proud pleasure Soft and low;-- While around the lashed Ocean, Like mountains in motion, Is withdrawn and uplifted, Sunk, shattered and shifted To and fro. IV. In the court of the fortress Beside the pale portress, Like a bloodhound well beaten The bridegroom stands, eaten By shame; On the topmost watch-turret, As a death-boding spirit Stands the gray tyrant father, To his voice the mad weather Seems tame; And with curses as wild As eer clung to child, He devotes to the blast, The best, loveliest and last Of his name! ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Fugitives ,

1423:The Lost Path The garden's full of scented wallflowers, And, save that these stir faintly, nothing stirs; Only a distant bell in hollow chime Cried out just now for far-forgoten time, And three reverberate words the great bell spoke. The knocker's made of brass, the door of oak, And such a clamor must be loosed on air By the knocker's blow that knock I do not dare. The silence is a spell, and if it break, What things, that now lie sleeping, will awake? Are simple creatures lying there in cool Sweet linen sheets, in slumber like the pool Of moonlight white as water on the floor? Will they come down laughing and unlock the door? And will they draw me in, and let me sit On the tall settle while the lamp is lit? And shall I see their innocent clean lives Shining as plainly as the plates and knives, The blue bowls, and the brass cage with its bird? But listen! listen! surely something stirred Within the house, and creeping down the halls Draws close to me with sinister footfalls. Will long pale fingers softly lift the latch, And lead me up, under the osier thatch, To a little room, a little secret room, Hung with green arras picturing the doom, The most disasterous death of some proud knight? And shall I search the room by candle-light And see, behind the curtains of my bed, A murdered man who sleeps as sleep the dead? Or will my clamorous knocking shake the trees With lonely thunder through the stillnesses, And then lie down--the coldest fear of all-To nothing, and deliberate silence fall On the house deep in the silence, and no one come To door or window, staring blind and dumb? 49 ~ Elinor Morton Wylie,

1424:L’apprenti Sorcier Suddenly there came to me The music of a mighty sea That on a bare and iron shore Thundered with a deeper roar Than all the tides that leap and run With us below the real sun: Because the place was far away, Above, beyond our homely day, Neighbouring close the frozen clime Where out of all the woods of time, Amid the frightful seraphim The fierce, cold eyes of Godhead gleam, Revolving hate and misery And wars and famines yet to be. And in my dreams I stood alone Upon a shelf of weedy stone, And saw before my shrinking eyes The dark, enormous breakers rise, And hover and fall with deafening thunder Of thwarted foam that echoed under The ledge, through many a cavern drear, With hollow sounds of wintry fear. And through the waters waste and grey, Thick-strown for many a league away, Out of the toiling sea arose Many a face and form of those Thin, elemental people dear Who live beyond our heavy sphere. And all at once from far and near, They all held out their arms to me, Crying in their melody, “Leap in! Leap in and take thy fill Of all the cosmic good and ill, Be as the Living ones that know Enormous joy, enormous woe, Pain beyond thought and fiery bliss: For all thy study hunted this, On wings of magic to arise, And wash from off thy filmed eyes 45 The cloud of cold mortality, To find the real life and be As are the children of the deep! Be bold and dare the glorious leap, Or to thy shame, go, slink again Back to the narrow ways of men.” So all these mocked me as I stood Striving to wake because I feared the flood. ~ Clive Staples Lewis,

1425:and the girl and I get into her car and drive off into the hills and we go to her room and I take off my clothes and lie on her bed and she goes into the bathroom and I wait a couple of minutes and then she finally comes out, a towel wrapped around her, and sits on the bed and I put my hands on her shoulders, and she says stop it and, after I let her go, she tells me to lean against the headboard and I do and then she takes off the towel and she's naked and she reaches into the drawer by her bed and brings out a tube of Bain De Soleil and she hands it to me and then she reaches into the drawer and brings out a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses and she tells me to put them on and I do. And she takes the tube of suntan lotion form me and squeezes some onto her fingers and then touches herself and motions for me to do the same, and I do. After a while I stop and reach over to her and she stops me and says no, and then places my hand back on myself and her hand begins again and after this goes on for a while I tell her that I'm going to come and she tells me to hold on a minute and that she's almost there and she begins to move her hand faster, spreading her legs wider, leaning back against the pillows, and I take the sunglasses off and she tells me to put them back on and I put them back on and it stings when I come and then I guess she comes too. Bowie's on the stereo and she gets up, flushed, and turns the stereo off and turns on MTV. I lie there, naked, sunglasses still on and she hands me a box of Kleenex. I wipe myself off then look through a Vogue that's lying by the side of the bed. She puts a robe on and stares at me. I can hear thunder in the distance and it begins to rain harder. She lights a cigarette and I start to dress .... ~ Bret Easton Ellis,

1426:My name is Kvothe, pronounced nearly the same as “Quothe.” Names are important as they tell you a great deal about a person. I’ve had more names than anyone has a right to. The Adem call me Maedre. Which, depending on how it’s spoken, can mean “The Flame,” “The Thunder,” or “The Broken Tree.” “The Flame” is obvious if you’ve ever seen me. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. I keep it short but it’s unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire. “The Thunder” I attribute to a strong baritone and a great deal of stage training at an early age. I’ve never thought of “The Broken Tree” as very significant. Although in retrospect I suppose it could be considered at least partially prophetic. My first mentor called me E’lir because I was clever and I knew it. My first real lover called me Dulator because she liked the sound of it. I have been called Shadicar, Lightfinger, and Six-String. I have been called Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe the Arcane, and Kvothe Kingkiller. I have earned those names. Bought and paid for them. But I was brought up as Kvothe. My father once told me it meant “to know.” I have, of course, been called many other things. Most of them uncouth, although very few were unearned. I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings. I burned down the town of Trebon. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep. You may have heard of me. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

1427:You have such strength," she said softly, "but you have never hurt me. I find that remarkable." "I am very careful not to hurt you," he said, his voice thick. Rycca nodded. "I appreciate that." She touched his lean hips and beyond, lightly caressing the hard muscles of his buttocks. He gritted his teeth and swore to himself that he could bear this. She was very close to him now, the thin cloth of her chemise brushing against him.He found that barrier intolerable. Plucking at the fabric, he muttered, "Take it off." She looked a little surprised, then smiled. "The truth is,I feel safer with it on, a little bolder." "Little?" He wanted to say more, something about her being any bolder and he would burst, but he couldn't get the words out. Probably because he wasn't breathing very well. Rycca hesitated but only a moment. With the gracefulness so natural to her, she lifted the chemise over her head and discarded it. In the silvery moonlight, her skin glowed like polished alabaster, pale but for the rosy fullness of her nipples and the fiery curls between her thights. He reached for her urgently, but once again she eluded his grasp. "Please..." she said again and took his thick wrists in her hands. Drawing them away from her body, she reaised her head and met his eyes. "You can't realize how much I want to..." "Thor's thunder,lady,do whatever you will before I perish!" Her eyes widened yet more and a startled laugh broke from her. Then her expression was suddenly wistful. "Do not think badly of me." Badly? How in all creation could he manage that? She was a dream brought to life, the most exquisitely seductive enchantress he had ever imagined. And she was his by the law of man and God. In all the wide world, how could a man ask for more? ~ Josie Litton,

1428:Song For Canada Sons of the race whose sires Aroused the martial flame That filled with smiles The triune Isles, Through all their heights of fame! With hearts as brave as theirs, With hopes as strong and high, We'll ne'er disgrace The honoured race Whose deeds can never die., Let but the rash intruder dare To touch our darling strand, The martial fires That thrilled our sires Would flame throughout the land. Our lakes are deep and wide, Our fields and forests broad; With cheerful air We'll speed the share, And break the fruitful sod; Till blest with rural peace, Proud of our rustic toil, On hill and plain True kings we'll reign, The victors of the soil. But let the rash intruder dare To touch our darling strand, The martial fires That thrilled our sires Would light him from the land. Health smiles with rosy face Amid our sunny dales, And torrents strong Fling hymn and song Through all the mossy vales; Our sons are living men, 114 Our daughters fond and fair; A thousand isles Where Plenty smiles, Make glad the brow of Care. But let the rash intruder dare To touch our darling strand, The martial fires That thrilled our sires Would flame throughout the land. And if in future years One wretch should turn and fly, Let weeping Fame Blot out his name From Freedom's hallowed sky; Or should our sons e'er prove A coward, traitor race,Just heaven! frown In thunder down, T' avenge the foul disgrace! But let the rash intruder dare To touch our darling strand, The martial fires That thrilled our sires Would light him from the land. ~ Charles Sangster,

1429:The Statesmen How blest the land that counts among Her sons so many good and wise, To execute great feats of tongue When troubles rise. Behold them mounting every stump, By speech our liberty to guard. Observe their courage--see them jump, And come down hard! 'Walk up, walk up!' each cries aloud, 'And learn from me what you must do To turn aside the thunder cloud, The earthquake too. 'Beware the wiles of yonder quack Who stuffs the ears of all that pass. I--I alone can show that black Is white as grass.' They shout through all the day and break The silence of the night as well. They'd make--I wish they'd go and make-Of Heaven a Hell. A advocates free silver, B Free trade and C free banking laws. Free board, clothes, lodging would from me Win wamr applause. Lo, D lifts up his voice: 'You see The single tax on land would fall On all alike.' More evenly No tax at all. 'With paper money,' bellows E, 'We'll all be rich as lords.' No doubt-And richest of the lot will be The chap without. 563 As many 'cures' as addle-wits Who know not what the ailment is! Meanwhile the patient foams and spits Like a gin fizz. Alas, poor Body Politic, Your fate is all too clearly read: To be not altogether quick, Nor very dead. You take your exercise in squirms, Your rest in fainting fits between. 'Tis plain that your disorder's worms-Worms fat and lean. Worm Capital, Worm Labor dwell Within your maw and muscle's scope. Their quarrels make your life a Hell, Your death a hope. God send you find not such an end To ills however sharp and huge! God send you convalesce! God send You vermifuge. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

1430:A crash of thunder shakes the storage room, startling us both. Another one follows on its heels, causing Beau to lift his head and howl. I scoot over to his side, scratching him behind one ear. “It’s okay, buddy. We’re safe in here.” I hope, I add silently. “Look at Sadie. She’s not being a scaredy-cat. Oops, sorry, guys,” I toss over my shoulder toward the cats. “Just a figure of speech. How’s it going over there in the USS Enterprise?” “You always talk to them like that?” Ryder asks me, his voice a little shaky. “Pretty much.” I look at him sharply, noticing how pale he’s gotten. A muscle in his jaw is working furiously, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Are you okay?” He doesn’t get a chance to answer. Another clap of thunder reverberates throughout the small space, followed by a horrible cracking sound and then a terrifyingly loud crashing noise. I rise to my knees, looking toward the door that leads out. “What the hell was that?” Ryder reaches for me, his fingers circling my wrist in a manacling grip. “You can’t go out there, Jemma!” I struggle to release myself. “I’ve got to see--” “No! There’s a goddamned tornado out there. Shit!” He pulls me toward him, and I practically fall into his lap. He’s shaking, I realize. Trembling all over. “What is wrong with you?” I ask him. “What’s wrong with me?” His voice rises shrilly. “You’re the one trying to go out in a tornado. You’ve got to wait till the sirens quit.” “I know. But crap, that sounded like something came through the roof.” I scoot away from him, putting space between our bodies. I can smell him--soap and shampoo and the clean, crisp-smelling cologne he always wears. I can smell something else, too--fear. He’s terrified. Of the storm? ~ Kristi Cook,

1431:Curran lunged through the window He was huge, neither a man, nor a lion. Curran’s usual warrior form stood upright. This creature moved on all fours. Enormous, bulging with muscle under a gray pelt striped with whip marks of darker gray, six hundred pounds at least. His head was lion, his eyes were human, and his fangs were monster. So that’s what the Beast Lord with no brakes looked like. He landed on the floor of my living room. Muscles twisted and crawled, stretching and snapping. The gray fur melted, fading into human skin, and Curran stood on my carpet, nude and pissed off, his eyes glowing gold. His voice was a deep snarl. “I know he’s here. I can smell him.” I felt an irresistible urge to brain him with something heavy. “Did you lose your sense of smell? Saiman’s scent is two hours old.” Golden eyes burned me. “Where is he?” “Under my bed.” The bed went airborne. It flew across the living room and slammed into the wall with a thud. That was just about enough of that. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” “Saving you from whatever mess you got yourself into this time.” Why me? “There is no mess! It’s a professional arrangement.” “He’s paying you?” Curran snarled. “No. I’m paying him.” He roared. His mouth was human, but the blast of sound that shot out of it was like thunder. “Ran out of words, Your Majesty?” “Why him?” he growled. “Of all the men you could have, why would you hire him for that?” “Because he has the best equipment in the city and he knows how to use it!” As soon as I said it, I realized how he would take it. The beginnings of another thundering roar died in Curran’s throat. He stared at me, mute. Oh, this was too good. I threw my hands up. “The lab! I’m talking about his lab, not his dick, you idiot. ~ Ilona Andrews,

1432:Even yet I do not know why the ocean holds such a fascination for me. But then, perhaps none of us can solve those things—they exist in defiance of all explanation. There are men, and wise men, who do not like the sea and its lapping surf on yellow shores; and they think us strange who love the mystery of the ancient and unending deep. Yet for me there is a haunting and inscrutable glamour in all the ocean's moods. It is in the melancholy silver foam beneath the moon's waxen corpse; it hovers over the silent and eternal waves that beat on naked shores; it is there when all is lifeless save for unknown shapes that glide through sombre depths. And when I behold the awesome billows surging in endless strength, there comes upon me an ecstasy akin to fear; so that I must abase myself before this mightiness, that I may not hate the clotted waters and their overwhelming beauty. Vast and lonely is the ocean, and even as all things came from it, so shall they return thereto. In the shrouded depths of time none shall reign upon the earth, nor shall any motion be, save in the eternal waters. And these shall beat on dark shores in thunderous foam, though none shall remain in that dying world to watch the cold light of the enfeebled moon playing on the swirling tides and coarse-grained sand. On the deep's margin shall rest only a stagnant foam, gathering about the shells and bones of perished shapes that dwelt within the waters. Silent, flabby things will toss and roll along empty shores, their sluggish life extinct. Then all shall be dark, for at last even the white moon on the distant waves shall wink out. Nothing shall be left, neither above nor below the sombre waters. And until that last millennium, and beyond the perishing of all other things, the sea will thunder and toss throughout the dismal night. ~ H P Lovecraft,

1433:My name is Kvothe, pronounced nearly the same as "quothe." Names are important as they tell you a great deal about a person. I've had more names than anyone has a right to. The Adem call me Maedre. Which, depending on how it's spoken, can mean The Flame, The Thunder, or The Broken Tree. "The Flame" is obvious if you've ever seen me. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple of hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. I keep it short but it's unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire. "The Thunder" I attribute to a strong baritone and a great deal of stage training at an early age. I've never thought of "The Broken Tree" as very significant. Although in retrospect, I suppose it could be considered at least partially prophetic. My first mentor called me E'lir because I was clever and I knew it. My first real lover called me Dulator because she liked the sound of it. I have been called Shadicar, Lightfinger, and Six-String. I have been called Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe the Arcane, and Kvothe Kingkiller. I have earned those names. Bought and paid for them. But I was brought up as Kvothe. My father once told me it meant "to know." I have, of course, been called many other things. Most of them uncouth, although very few were unearned. I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings. I burned down the town of Trebon. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep. You may have heard of me. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

1434:World's Desire Love, there is a castle built in a country desolate, On a rock above a forest where the trees are grim and great, Blasted with the lightning sharp-giant boulders strewn between, And the mountains rise above, and the cold ravine Echoes to the crushing roar and thunder of a mighty river Raging down a cataract. Very tower and forest quiver And the grey wolves are afraid and the call of birds is drowned, And the thought and speech of man in the boiling water's sound. But upon the further side of the barren, sharp ravine With the sunlight on its turrets is the castle seen, Calm and very wonderful, white above the green Of the wet and waving forest, slanted all away, Because the driving Northern wind will not rest by night or day. Yet the towers are sure above, very mighty is the stead, The gates are made of ivory, the roofs of copper red. Round and round the warders grave walk upon the walls for ever And the wakeful dragons couch in the ports of ivory, Nothing is can trouble it, hate of the gods nor man's endeavour, And it shall be a resting-place, dear heart, for you and me. Through the wet and waving forest with an age-old sorrow laden Singing of the world's regret wanders wild the faerie maiden, Through the thistle and the brier, through the tangles of the thorn, Till her eyes be dim with weeping and her homeless feet are torn. Often to the castle gate up she looks with vain endeavour, For her soulless loveliness to the castle winneth never. But within the sacred court, hidden high upon the mountain, Wandering in the castle gardens lovely folk enough there be, Breathing in another air, drinking of a purer fountain And among that folk, beloved, there's a place for you and me ~ Clive Staples Lewis,

1435:The Buddha, too, goes into the forest and has conferences there with the leading gurus of his day. Then he goes past them and, after a season of trials and search, comes to the bo tree, the tree of illumination, where he, likewise, undergoes three temptations. The first is of lust, the second of fear, and the third of submission to public opinion, doing as told. In the first temptation, the Lord of Lust displayed his three beautiful daughters before the Buddha. Their names were Desire, Fulfillment, and Regrets - Future, Present, and Past. But the Buddha, who had already disengaged himself from attachment to his sensual character, was not moved. Then the Lord of Lust turned himself into the Lord of Death and flung at the Buddha all the weapons of an army of monsters. But the Buddha had found himself that still point within, which is of eternity, untouched by time. So again, he was not moved, and the weapons flung at him turned into flowers of worship. Finally the Lord of Lust and Death transformed himself into the Lord of Social Duty and argued, "Young man, haven't you read the morning papers? Don't you know what there is to be done today?" The Buddha responded by simply touching the earth with the tips of the fingers of his right hand. Then the voice of the goddess mother of the universe was heard, like thunder rolling on the horizon, saying, "This, my beloved son, has already so given of himself to the world that there is no one here to be ordered about. Give up this nonsense." Whereupon the elephant on which the Lord of Social Duty was riding bowed in worship of the Buddha, and the entire company of the Antagonist dissolved like a dream. That night, the Buddha achieved illumination, and for the next fifty years remained in the world as teacher of the way to the extinction of the bondages of egoism. p171-2 ~ Joseph Campbell,

1436:Here am I, a little animal called a man--a bit of vitalized matter, one hundred and sixty-five pounds of meat and blood, nerve, sinew, bones, and brain,--all of it soft and tender, susceptible to hurt, fallible, and frail. I strike a light back-handed blow on the nose of an obstreperous horse, and a bone in my hand is broken. I put my head under the water for five minutes, and I am drowned. I fall twenty feet through the air, and I am smashed. I am a creature of temperature. A few degrees one way, and my fingers and ears and toes blacken and drop off. A few degrees the other way, and my skin blisters and shrivels away from the raw, quivering flesh. A few additional degrees either way, and the life and the light in me go out. A drop of poison injected into my body from a snake, and I cease to move--for ever I cease to move. A splinter of lead from a rifle enters my head, and I am wrapped around in the eternal blackness. Fallible and frail, a bit of pulsating, jelly-like life--it is all I am. About me are the great natural forces--colossal menaces, Titans of destruction, unsentimental monsters that have less concern for me than I have for the grain of sand I crush under my foot. They have no concern at all for me. They do not know me. They are unconscious, unmerciful, and unmoral. They are the cyclones and tornadoes, lightning flashes and cloud-bursts, tide-rips and tidal waves, undertows and waterspouts, great whirls and sucks and eddies, earthquakes and volcanoes, surfs that thunder on rock-ribbed coasts and seas that leap aboard the largest crafts that float, crushing humans to pulp or licking them off into the sea and to death--and these insensate monsters do not know that tiny sensitive creature, all nerves and weaknesses, whom men call Jack London, and who himself thinks he is all right and quite a superior being. ~ Jack London,

1437:Hey,” Chase said as he approached. “The rain sucks.” “Agreed.” His younger brother settled on a log. “I checked on the cattle. They’re fine. The clouds don’t look like there’s going to be any lightning or thunder, but they look plenty wet.” Zane nodded. “Storm’s supposed to last two days. I was hoping it would hold off until Saturday.” Chase sipped his coffee. “Everybody okay?” There was something about the question. Zane stared at him. “What do you mean?” “Nothing. Just checking.” Had Chase heard something in the night? Zane shook his head. Not possible. His tent had been some distance from the others, and the rain had blocked out a lot of noise. Nothing about his brother’s expression told what he was thinking. “We’re heading back today, right?” Chase said. “That’s the plan. I wish it wasn’t a two-day ride.” “There’s--” Chase stopped speaking and stared at his coffee. Zane knew what he’d been about to say. Reilly’s place. It was only about an hour’s ride. The old man would give them shelter until the worst of the storm passed, and even send out a few of his men to watch over the cattle until then. But Zane wasn’t about to impose on his neighbor. Not now and not ever. He glanced at the sky and wondered how long he could take a stand in weather like this. Whatever his issues with Reilly, his guests’ safety came first. “I better see how everyone’s doing,” he said as he tossed the rest of his coffee into the fire. “Before you go,” Chase said and held out something in his hand. “I wasn’t sure if you had enough with you.” Zane stared at the three condoms resting on his brother’s palm. Then he glanced at Chase, who was grinning. “Way to go, big brother.” Not knowing what to say, Zane rose and stalked off. But not before he took the condoms. He might be stubborn, but he wasn’t a fool. ~ Susan Mallery,

1438:1. God of the golden bow,    And of the golden lyre, And of the golden hair,    And of the golden fire,       Charioteer       Of the patient year,    Where-where slept thine ire, When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,    Thy laurel, thy glory,    The light of thy story, Or was I a worm-too low crawling for death?    O Delphic Apollo! 2. The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,    The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd; The eagle's feathery mane    For wrath became stiffen'd-the sound       Of breeding thunder       Went drowsily under,    Muttering to be unbound. O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm?    Why touch thy soft lute    Till the thunder was mute, Why was I not crush'd-such a pitiful germ?    O Delphic Apollo! 3. The Pleiades were up,    Watching the silent air; The seeds and roots in Earth    Were swelling for summer fare;       The Ocean, its neighbour,       Was at his old labour,    When, who-who did dare To tie for a moment, thy plant round his brow,    And grin and look proudly,    And blaspheme so loudly, And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now?    O Delphic Apollo! This also was first given in the Literary Remains in the second volume of the Life, Letters &c. 1848, where it stood next to the Ode To Apollo, though undated. As Lord Houghton retains it between the Ode To Apollo and the stanzas To Hope (dated February 1815) in the chronological Aldine edition, the date February 1815 may be presumed to be that of the Hymn as well as that of the Ode. ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Hymn To Apollo ,

1439:A Second Childhood.” When all my days are ending And I have no song to sing, I think that I shall not be too old To stare at everything; As I stared once at a nursery door Or a tall tree and a swing. Wherein God’s ponderous mercy hangs On all my sins and me, Because He does not take away The terror from the tree And stones still shine along the road That are and cannot be. Men grow too old for love, my love, Men grow too old for wine, But I shall not grow too old to see Unearthly daylight shine, Changing my chamber’s dust to snow Till I doubt if it be mine. Behold, the crowning mercies melt, The first surprises stay; And in my dross is dropped a gift For which I dare not pray: That a man grow used to grief and joy But not to night and day. Men grow too old for love, my love, Men grow too old for lies; But I shall not grow too old to see Enormous night arise, A cloud that is larger than the world And a monster made of eyes. Nor am I worthy to unloose The latchet of my shoe; Or shake the dust from off my feet Or the staff that bears me through On ground that is too good to last, Too solid to be true. Men grow too old to woo, my love, Men grow too old to wed; But I shall not grow too old to see Hung crazily overhead Incredible rafters when I wake And I find that I am not dead. A thrill of thunder in my hair: Though blackening clouds be plain, Still I am stung and startled By the first drop of the rain: Romance and pride and passion pass And these are what remain. Strange crawling carpets of the grass, Wide windows of the sky; So in this perilous grace of God With all my sins go I: And things grow new though I grow old, Though I grow old and die. ~ G K Chesterton,

1440:Niobe How like the sky she bends above her child, One with the great horizon of her pain! No sob from our low seas where woe runs wild, No weeping cloud, no momentary rain, Can mar the heaven-high visage of her grief, That frozen anguish, proud, majestic, dumb. She stoops in pity above the labouring earth, Knowing how fond, how brief Is all its hope, past, present, and to come, She stoops in pity, and yearns to assuage its dearth. Through that fair face the whole dark universe Speaks, as a thorn-tree speaks thro’ one white flower; And all those wrenched Promethean souls that curse The gods, but cannot die before their hour, Find utterance in her beauty. That fair head Bows over all earth’s graves. It was her cry Men heard in Rama when the twisted ways With children’s blood ran red. Her silence towers to Silences on high; And, in her face, the whole earth’s anguish prays. It is the pity, the pity of human love That strains her face, upturned to meet the doom, And her deep bosom, like a snow-white dove Frozen upon its nest, ne’er to resume Its happy breathing o’er the golden brace That she must shield till death. Death, death alone Can break the anguished horror of that spell. The sorrow on her face Is sealed: the living flesh is turned to stone; She knows all, all, that Life and Time can tell. Ah, yet, her woman’s love, so vast, so tender, Her woman’s body, hurt by every dart, Braving the thunder, still, still hide the slender 61 Soft frightened child beneath her mighty heart. She is all one mute immortal cry, one brief Infinite pang of such victorious pain That she transcends the heavens and bows them down! The majesty of grief Is hers, and her dominion must remain Eternal. Grief alone can wear that crown. ~ Alfred Noyes,

1441:Happy As The Day Is Long I take the long walk up the staircase to my secret room. Today's big news: they found Amelia Earhart's shoe, size 9. 1992: Charlie Christian is bebopping at Minton's in 1941. Today, the Presidential primaries have failed us once again. We'll look for our excitement elsewhere, in the last snow that is falling, in tomorrow's Gospel Concert in Springfield. It's a good day to be a cat and just sleep. Or to read the Confessions of Saint Augustine. Jesus called the sons of Zebedee the Sons of Thunder. In my secret room, plans are hatched: we'll explore the Smoky Mountains. Then we'll walk along a beach: Hallelujah! (A letter was just delivered by Overnight Expressit contained nothing of importance, I slept through it.) (I guess I'm trying to be 'above the fray.') The Russians, I know, have developed a language called 'Lincos' designed for communicating with the inhabitants of other worlds. That's been a waste of time, not even a postcard. But then again, there are tree-climbing fish, called anabases. They climb the trees out of stupidity, or so it is said. Who am I to judge? I want to break out of here. A bee is not strong in geometry: it cannot tell a square from a triangle or a circle. The locker room of my skull is full of panting egrets. I'm saying that strictly for effect. In time I will heal, I know this, or I believe this. The contents and furnishings of my secret room will be labeled and organized so thoroughly it will be a little frightening. What I thought was infinite will turn out to be just a couple of odds and ends, a tiny miscellany, miniature stuff, fragments of novelties, of no great moment. But it will also be enough, maybe even more than enough, to suggest an immense ritual and tradition. And this makes me very happy. ~ Edward Taylor,

1442:Ode To Marie-Anne-Charlotte Corday Le noir serpent, sorti de sa caverne impure, A donc vu rompre enfin sous ta main ferme et sûre le venimeux tissu de ses jours abhorrés! Aux entrailles du tigre, à ses dents homicides, Tu vins demander et les membres livides Et le sang des humains qu'il avait dévorés! La vertu seule est libre. Honneur de notre histoire, Notre immortel opprobre y vit avec ta gloire. Seule tu fus un homme, et vengea les humains. Et nous, eunuques vils, troupeau lâche et sans âme, Nous savons répéter quelques plaintes de femme, Mais le fer pèserait à nos débiles mains. ..... Un scélérat de moins rampe dans cette fange. La Vertu t'applaudit. De sa mâle louange Entends, bell héroïne, entends l'auguste voix. O Vertu, le poignard, seul espoir de la terre, Est ton arme sacrée, alors que le tonnerre Laisse régner le crime, et te vend à ses lois. English (The black serpent, leaving his filthy cave, Has finally suffered by your hand so sure and brave The end of its venomous existence so despised! From the tiger's guts, from his homicidal teeth You came and drew what he'd devoured from beneath: The blood and livid members of his victims sacrificed.) (Virtue alone is free. Honor of our history, Our immortal shame we live beside your glory. Only you were a man, your knife did vengeance wreak; And we, vile eunuchs, cowardly and soul-less cattle. We can at best complain like women prattle, But to wield a sword our hands would be too weak ..... In that mud crawls one scoundrel less. 142 Hear, lovely heroine, hear Virtue bless, Hear the august voice of its virile praise. Oh virtue, the dagger that hope will raise, Is your sacred arm, when Heaven holds its thunder And lets crime rule, while laws are cut asunder.) ~ Andre Marie de Chenier,

1443:The Germ I took to khaki at a word, And fashioned dreams of wonder. I rode the great sea like a bird, Chock full of blood and thunder. I saw myself upon the field Of battle, framed in glory, Compelling stubborn foes to yield As captives to my sword and shield— This is another story. We sat about in sun and sand, We broke old Cairo's images, Met here and there a swarthy band In little, friendly scrimmages, And here it is I start to kid No Moslem born can hit me. The Germ then that had long laid hid Came out of Pharaoh's pyramid, And covertly he bit me. For some few days I wore an air Of pensive introspection, And then I curled down anywhere. They whispered of infection, And hoist me on two sticks as though I bore the leper's label, And took me where, all in a row Of tiny beds, two score or so Were raising second Babel; But no man talked to any one. And no bloke knew another. This soldier raved about his gun, And that one of his mother. They were the victims of the Germ, The imp that Satan pricks in, First cousin to the Coffin Worm, Whose uncomputed legions squirm Some foul, atomic Styx in. 121 The Germ rides with the plunging shell, Or on the belts that fret you, Or in a speck of dust may well One thousand years to get you; Well ambushed in a tunic fold He waits his special mission, And never lad so big and bold But turns to water in his hold And dribbles to perdition. Where is war's pomp and circumstance, The gauds in which we prank it? Germ ends for us our fine romance, Wrapped in a dingy blanket. We set out braggartly in mirth, World's bravest men and tallest, To do the mightiest thing on earth, And here we're lying, nothing worth, Succumbent to the smallest! ~ Edward George Dyson,

1444:... WHEN ONE LOOKS INTO THE DARKNESS THERE IS ALWAYS SOMETHING THERE... Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose, Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre, Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes Saw the pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise In Druid vapour and make the torches dim; Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him Who met Fand walking among flaming dew By a grey shore where the wind never blew, And lost the world and Emer for a kiss; And him who drove the gods out of their liss, And till a hundred morns had flowered red Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead; And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods: And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods, And sought through lands and islands numberless years, Until he found, with laughter and with tears, A woman of so shining loveliness That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress, A little stolen tress. I, too, await The hour of thy great wind of love and hate. When shall the stars be blown about the sky, Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die? Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows, Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose? Out of sight is out of mind: Long have man and woman-kind, Heavy of will and light of mood, Taken away our wheaten food, Taken away our Altar stone; Hail and rain and thunder alone, And red hearts we turn to grey, Are true till time gutter away. ... the common people are always ready to blame the beautiful. ~ W B Yeats,

1445:After Sunset REST--rest--four little letters, one short word, Enfolding an infinitude of bliss-Rest is upon the earth. The heavy clouds Hang poised in silent ether, motionless, Seeking nor sun nor breeze. No restless star Thrills the sky's gray-robed breast with pulsing rays, The night's heart has throbbed out. No grass blade stirs, No downy-wingèd moth comes flittering by Caught by the light--Thank God, there is no light, No open-eyed, loud-voiced, quick motioned light, Nothing but gloom and rest. A row of trees Along the hill horizon, westward, stands All black and still, as if it were a rank Of fallen angels, melancholy met Before the amber gate of Paradise-The bright shut gate, whose everlasting smile Deadens despair to calm. O, better far Better than bliss is rest! If suddenly Those burnished doors of molten gold, steel-barred, Which the sun closed behind him as he went Into his bridal chamber--were to burst Asunder with a clang, and in a breath God's mysteries were revealed--His kingdom came-The multitudes of heavenly messengers Hastening throughout all space--the thunder quire Of praise--the obedient lightnings' lambent gleam Around the unseen Throne--should I not sink Crushed by the weight of such beatitudes, Crying, 'Rest, only rest, thou merciful God! Hide me within the hollow of Thy hand In some dark corner of the universe, Thy bright, full, busy universe, that blinds, Deafens, and tortures--Give me only rest!' O for a soul-sleep, long and deep and still! To lie down quiet after the weary day, 43 Dropping all pleasant flowers from the numbed hands, Bidding good-night to all companions dear, Drawing the curtains on this darkened world, Closing the eyes, and with a patient sigh Murmuring 'Our Father'--fall on sleep, till dawn! ~ Dinah Maria Mulock Craik,

1446:It was The Gospel From Outer Space, by Kilgore Trout. It was about a visitor from outer space... [who] made a serious study of Christianity, to learn, if he could, why Christians found it so easy to be cruel. He concluded that at least part of the trouble was slipshod storytelling in the New Testament. He supposed that the intent of the Gospels was to teach people, among other things, to be merciful, even to the lowest of the low. But the Gospels actually taught this: Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isn't well connected. So it goes. The flaw in the Christ stories, said the visitor from outer space, was that Christ, who didn't look like much, was actually the Son of the Most Powerful Being in the Universe. Readers understood that, so, when they came to the crucifixion, they naturally thought...: Oh, boy — they sure picked the wrong guy to lynch that time! And that thought had a brother: "There are right people to lynch." Who? People not well connected. So it goes. The visitor from outer space made a gift to Earth of a new Gospel. In it, Jesus really was a nobody, and a pain in the neck to a lot of people with better connections than he had. He still got to say all the lovely and puzzling things he said in the other Gospels. So the people amused themselves one day by nailing him to a cross and planting the cross in the ground. There couldn't possibly be any repercussions, the lynchers thought. The reader would have to think that too, since the Gospel hammered home again and again what a nobody Jesus was. And then, just before the nobody died, the heavens opened up, and there was thunder and lightning. The voice of God came crashing down. He told the people that he was adopting the bum as his son, giving him the full powers and privileges of the Son of the Creator of the Universe throughout all eternity. God said this: From this moment on, He will punish anybody who torments a bum who has no connections! ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

1447:The Man Bitten By Fleas A Peevish Fellow laid his Head On Pillows, stuff'd with Down; But was no sooner warm in Bed, With hopes to rest his Crown, But Animals of slender size, That feast on humane Gore, From secret Ambushes arise, Nor suffer him to snore; Who starts, and scrubs, and frets, and swears, 'Till, finding all in vain, He for Relief employs his Pray'rs In this old Heathen strain. Great Jupiter! thy Thunder send From out the pitchy Clouds, And give these Foes a dreadful End, That lurk in Midnight Shrouds: Or Hercules might with a Blow, If once together brought, This Crew of Monsters overthrow, By which such Harms are wrought. The Strife, ye Gods! is worthy You, Since it our Blood has cost; And scorching Fevers must ensue, When cooling Sleep is lost. Strange Revolutions wou'd abound, Did Men ne'er close their Eyes; Whilst those, who wrought them wou'd be found At length more Mad, than Wise. Passive Obedience must be us'd, If this cannot be Cur'd; But whilst one Flea is slowly bruis'd, Thousands must be endur'd. 159 Confusion, Slav'ry, Death and Wreck Will on the Nation seize, If, whilst you keep your Thunders back, We're massacr'd by Fleas. Why, prithee, shatter-headed Fop, The laughing Gods reply; Hast thou forgot thy Broom, and Mop, And Wormwood growing nigh? Go sweep, and wash, and strew thy Floor, As all good Housewives teach; And do not thus for Thunders roar, To make some fatal Breach: Which You, nor your succeeding Heir, Nor yet a long Descent Shall find out Methods to repair, Tho' Prudence may prevent. For Club, and Bolts, a Nation call'd of late, Nor wou'd be eas'd by Engines of less Weight: But whether lighter had not done as well, Let their Great-Grandsons, or their Grandsons tell. ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

1448:The Lyon And The Gnat To the still Covert of a Wood About the prime of Day, A Lyon, satiated with Food, With stately Pace, and sullen Mood, Now took his lazy way. To Rest he there himself compos'd, And in his Mind revolv'd, How Great a Person it enclos'd, How free from Danger he repos'd, Though now in Ease dissolv'd! Who Guard, nor Centinel did need, Despising as a Jest All whom the Forest else did feed, As Creatures of an abject Breed, Who durst not him molest. But in the Air a Sound he heard, That gave him some dislike; At which he shook his grisly Beard, Enough to make the Woods affeard, And stretch'd his Paw to strike. When on his lifted Nose there fell A Creature, slight of Wing, Who neither fear'd his Grin, nor Yell, Nor Strength, that in his Jaws did dwell, But gores him with her Sting. Transported with th' Affront and Pain, He terribly exclaims, Protesting, if it comes again, Its guilty Blood the Grass shall stain. And to surprize it aims. The scoffing Gnat now laugh'd aloud, And bids him upwards view The Jupiter within the Cloud, 155 That humbl'd him, who was so proud, And this sharp Thunder threw. That Taunt no Lyon's Heart cou'd bear; And now much more he raves, Whilst this new Perseus in the Air Do's War and Strife again declare, And all his Terrour braves. Upon his haughty Neck she rides, Then on his lashing Tail; (Which need not now provoke his Sides) Where she her slender Weapon guides, And makes all Patience fail. A Truce at length he must propose, The Terms to be her Own; Who likewise Rest and Quiet chose, Contented now her Life to close, When she'd such Triumph known. You mighty Men, who meaner ones despise, Learn from this Fable to become more Wise; You see the Lyon may be vext with Flies ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

1449:A Last Appeal KNOWING our needs, hardly knowing our powers, Hear how we cry to you, brothers of ours!-Brothers in nature, pulse, passions, and pains, Our sins in you, and your blood in our veins. First in your palace, or last in our den, Basest or best, we are all of us men! Justice eternal cries out in our name, What is the least common manhood can claim? 'Food that we make for you, Money we earn: Give us our share of them-Give us our turn.' Landowners, bankers, and merchants, we make Out of our lives this new wealth that you take. Have we earned only such pitiful dole As just holds worn body to desolate soul? When that soul is bewildered each day and perplext With the problem of how to get bread for the next, Is it better to end it, as some of us do, Or to fight it out bravely, still calling to you-'Food that we make for you, Money we earn: Give us our share of them-Give us our turn'? Ever more passionate grows our demand-Give us our share of our food and our land: Give us our rights, make us equal and free-Let us be all we are not, but might be. Our sons would be honest, our daughters be pure, If our wage were more certain, your vices less sure-Oh, you who are forging the fetters we feel, Hear our wild protest, our maddened appeal-'Food that we make for you, Money we earn: Give us our share of them-- 15 Give us our turn.' Hear us, and answer, while Time is your friend, Lest we be answered by God in the end; Lest, when the flame of His patience burns low, We be the weapon He shapes for His blow-Lest with His foot on your necks He shall stand, And appeal that you spurned be new-born as command, And thunder your doom, as you die by the rod Of the vengeance of man through the justice of God. 'Food that we make for you, Money we earn: Give us our share of them-Give us our turn.' ~ Edith Nesbit,

1450:Holy Dan It was in the Queensland drought; And over hill and dell, No grass – the water far apart, All dry and hot as hell. The wretched bullock teams drew up Beside a water-hole – They’d struggled on through dust and drought For days to reach this goal. And though the water rendered forth A rank, unholy stench, The bullocks and the bullockies Drank deep their thirst to quench. Two of the drivers cursed and swore As only drivers can. The other one, named Daniel, Best known as Holy Dan, Admonished them and said it was The Lord’s all-wise decree; And if they’d only watch and wait, A change they’d quickly see. ’Twas strange that of Dan’s bullocks Not one had gone aloft, But this, he said, was due to prayer And supplication oft. At last one died but Dan was calm, He hardly seemed to care; He knelt beside the bullock’s corpse And offered up a prayer. "One bullock Thou has taken, Lord, And so it seemeth best. Thy will be done, but see my need And spare to me the rest!" A month went by. Dan’s bullocks now Were dying every day, But still on each occasion would 13 The faithful fellow pray, "Another Thou has taken, Lord, And so it seemeth best. Thy will be done, but see my need, And spare to me the rest!" And still they camped beside the hole, And still it never rained, And still Dan’s bullocks died and died, Till only one remained. Then Dan broke down – good Holy Dan – The man who never swore. He knelt beside the latest corpse, And here’s the prayer he prore. "That’s nineteen Thou has taken, Lord, And now You’ll plainly see You’d better take the bloody lot, One’s no damn good to me." The other riders laughed so much They shook the sky around; The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, And Holy Dan was drowned. ~ Anonymous Oceania,

1451:Rivers Of Canada O all the little rivers that run to Hudson's Bay, They call me and call me to follow them away. Missinaibi, Abitibi, Little Current-whe re they run Dancing and sparkling I see them in the sun. I hear the brawling rapid, the thunder of the fall, And when I think upon them I cannot stay at all. At the far end of the carry, where the wilderness begins, Set me down with my canoe-load- and forgiveness of my sins. O all the mighty rivers beneath the Polar Star, They call me and call me to follow them afar. Peace and Athabasca and Coppermine and Slave, And Yukon and Mackenzie-t he highroads of the brave. Saskatchewan , Assiniboine, the Bow and the Qu'Appelle, And many a prairie river whose name is like a spell. They rumor through the twilight at the edge of the unknown, 'There's a message waiting for you, and a kingdom all your own. 'The wilderness shall feed you, her gleam shall be your guide. Come out from desolations, our path of hope is wide.' O all the headlong rivers that hurry to the West, They call me and lure me with the joy of their unrest. Columbia and Fraser and Bear and Kootenay, I love their fearless reaches where winds untarnished playThe rush of glacial water across the pebbly bar To polished pools of azure where the hidden boulders are. Just there, with heaven smiling, any morning I would be, Where all the silver rivers go racing to the sea. O well remembered rivers that sing of long ago, Ajourneying through summer or dreaming under snow. Among their meadow islands through placid days they glide, 137 And where the peaceful orchards are diked against the tide. Tobique and Madawaska and shining Gaspereaux, St. Croix and Nashwaak and St. John whose haunts I used to know. And all the pleasant rivers that seek the Fundy foam, They call me and call me to follow them home. ~ Bliss William Carman,

1452:The general, whom the boys knew as the commander of their division, looked at the other officer and spoke coolly, as if he were criticising his clothes. "Th' enemy's formin' over there for another charge," he said. "It'll be directed against Whiterside, an' I fear they'll break through there unless we work like thunder t' stop them." The other swore at his restive horse, and then cleared his throat. He made a gesture toward his cap. "It'll be hell t' pay stoppin' them," he said shortly. "I presume so," remarked the general. Then he began to talk rapidly and in a lower tone. He frequently illustrated his words with a pointing finger. The two infantrymen could hear nothing until finally he asked: "What troops can you spare?" The officer who rode like a cowboy reflected for an instant. "Well," he said, "I had to order in th' 12th to help th' 76th, an' I haven't really got any. But there's th' 304th. They fight like a lot 'a mule drivers. I can spare them best of any." The youth and his friend exchanged glances of astonishment. The general spoke sharply. "Get 'em ready, then. I'll watch developments from here, an' send you word when t' start them. It'll happen in five minutes." As the other officer tossed his fingers toward his cap and wheeling his horse, started away, the general called out to him in a sober voice: "I don't believe many of your mule drivers will get back." The other shouted something in reply. He smiled. With scared faces, the youth and his companion hurried back to the line. These happenings had occupied an incredibly short time, yet the youth felt that in them he had been made aged. New eyes were given to him. And the most startling thing was to learn suddenly that he was very insignificant. The officer spoke of the regiment as if he referred to a broom. Some part of the woods needed sweeping, perhaps, and he merely indicated a broom in a tone properly indifferent to its fate. It was war, no doubt, but it appeared strange. ~ Stephen Crane,

1453:Night Hymns On Lake Nipigon Here in the midnight, where the dark mainland and island Shadows mingle in shadow deeper, profounder, Sing we the hymns of the churches, while the dead water Whispers before us. Thunder is travelling slow on the path of the lightning; One after one the stars and the beaming planets Look serene in the lake from the edge of the storm-cloud, Then have they vanished. While our canoe, that floats dumb in the bursting thunder, Gathers her voice in the quiet and thrills and whispers, Presses her prow in the star-gleam, and all her ripple Lapses in blackness. Sing we the sacred ancient hymns of the churches, Chanted first in old-world nooks of the desert, While in the wild, pellucid Nipigon reaches Hunted the savage. Now have the ages met in the Northern midnight, And on the lonely, loon-haunted Nipigon reaches Rises the hymn of triumph and courage and comfort, Adeste Fideles. Tones that were fashioned when the faith brooded in darkness, Joined with sonorous vowels in the noble Latin, Now are married with the long-drawn Ojibwa, Uncouth and mournful. Soft with the silver drip of the regular paddles Falling in rhythm, timed with the liquid, plangent Sounds from the blades where the whirlpools break and are carried Down into darkness; Each long cadence, flying like a dove from her shelter Deep in the shadow, wheels for a throbbing moment, Poises in utterance, returning in circles of silver To nest in the silence. 72 All wild nature stirs with the infinite, tender Plaint of a bygone age whose soul is eternal, Bound in the lonely phrases that thrill and falter Back into quiet. Back they falter as the deep storm overtakes them, Whelms them in splendid hollows of booming thunder, Wraps them in rain, that, sweeping, breaks and onrushes Ringing like cymbals. ~ Duncan Campbell Scott,

1454:The visitor from outer space made a serious study of Christianity, to learn, if he could, why Christians found it so easy to be cruel. He concluded that at least part of the trouble was slipshod storytelling in the New Testament. He supposed that the intent of the Gospels was to teach people, among other things, to be merciful, even to the lowest of the low. But the Gospels actually taught this: Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isn’t well connected. So it goes. The flaw in the Christ stories, said the visitor from outer space, was that Christ, who didn’t look like much, was actually the Son of the Most Powerful Being in the Universe. Readers understood that, so, when they came to the crucifixion, they naturally thought, and Rosewater read out loud again: Oh, boy–they sure picked the wrong guy to lynch that time! And that thought had a brother: “There are right people to lynch.” Who? People not well connected. So it goes. The visitor from outer space made a gift to the Earth of a new Gospel. In it, Jesus really was a nobody, and a pain in the neck to a lot of people with better connections than he had. He still got to say all the lovely and puzzling things he said in the other Gospels. So the people amused themselves one day by nailing him to a cross and planting the cross in the ground. There couldn’t possibly be any repercussions, the lynchers thought. The reader would have to think that, too, since the new Gospel hammered home again and again what a nobody Jesus was. And then, just before the nobody died, the heavens opened up, and there was thunder and lightning. The voice of God came crashing down. He told the people that he was adopting the bum as his son, giving him the full powers and privileges of The Son of the Creator of the Universe throughout all eternity. God said this: From this moment on, He will punish horribly anybody who torments a bum who has no connections. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

1455:Ode To The Northeast Wind Welcome, wild Northeaster! Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne'er a verse to thee. Welcome, black Northeaster! O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home. Tired are we of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day-Jovial wind of winter Turn us out to play! Sweep the golden reed-beds; Crisp the lazy dike; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe. Through the black fir-forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snowflakes Off the curdled sky. Hark! The brave Northeaster! Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow. Who can override you? Let the horses go! Chime, ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die 66 Ere an hour be past. Go! and rest tomorrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O'er the frozen streams. Let the luscious Southwind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies' eyes. What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? 'Tis the hard gray weather Breeds hard English men. What's the soft Southwester? 'Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their trueloves Out of all the seas. But the black Northeaster, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world. Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea. Come; and strong, within us Stir the Vikings' blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of God! ~ Charles Kingsley,

1456:A Flower Of A Day OLD friend, that with a pale and pensile grace Climbest the lush hedgerows, art thou back again, Marking the slow round of the wond'rous years? Didst beckon me a moment, silent flower? Silent? As silent is the archangel's pen That day by day writes our life chronicle, And turns the page,--the half-forgotten page, Which all eternity will never blot. Forgotten? No, we never do forget: We let the years go: eash then clean with tears, Leave them to bleach, out in the open day, Or lock them careful by, like dead friends' clothes, Till we shall dare unfold them without pain,-But we forget not, never can forget. Flower, thou and I a moment face to face-My face as clear as thine, this July noon Shining on both, on bee and butterfly And golden geetle creeping in the sun-Will pause, and,lifting up, page after page, The many-colored history of life, Look backwards, backwards. So, the volume close! This July day, with the sun high in heaven, And the whole earth rejoicing,--let it close. I think we need not sigh, complain, nor rave; Nor blush,--our doings and misdoing all Being more 'gainst heaven than man, heaven them does keep With all its doings and undoings strange Concerning us.--Ah, let the volume close: I would not alter in it one poor line. My dainty flower, my innocent white flower With such a pure smile looking up to heaven, With such a bright smile looking down on me-(Nothing but smiles,--as if in all the world 12 Were no such things as thunder-storms or frosts, Or broken petals trampled on the ground, Or shivering leaveswhirled in the wintry air Like ghosts of last years joys--my pretty flower, I'll pluck thee--smiling too. Not one salt drop Shall stain thee:--if these foolish eyes are dim, That they behold such beauty and such peace, Such wisdom and such sweetness, in God's world. ~ Dinah Maria Mulock Craik,

1457:we should all be amazed that we are Christians, that the great God is working in us. In “O Little Town of Bethlehem” we sing, “O holy child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray; cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us today.” It’s a bold image, but quite right. Every Christian is like Mary. Everyone who puts faith in Christ receives, by the Holy Spirit, “Christ in you, the hope of glory” (Colossians 1:27, emphasis mine). We should be just as shocked that God would give us—with all our smallness and flaws—such a mighty gift. And so no Christian should ever be far from this astonishment that “I, I of all people, should be loved and embraced by his grace!” I would go so far as to say that this perennial note of surprise is a mark of anyone who understands the essence of the Gospel. What is Christianity? If you think Christianity is mainly going to church, believing a certain creed, and living a certain kind of life, then there will be no note of wonder and surprise about the fact that you are a believer. If someone asks you, “Are you a Christian?” you will say, “Of course I am! It’s hard work but I’m doing it. Why do you ask?” Christianity is, in this view, something done by you—and so there’s no astonishment about being a Christian. However, if Christianity is something done for you, and to you, and in you, then there is a constant note of surprise and wonder. John Newton wrote the hymn: Let us love and sing and wonder, Let us praise the Savior’s name. He has hushed the law’s loud thunder, He has quenched Mount Sinai’s flame. He has washed us with his blood He has brought us nigh to God.1 See where the love and wonder comes from—because he has done all this and brought us to himself. He has done it. So if someone asks you if you are a Christian, you should not say, “Of course!” There should be no “of course-ness” about it. It would be more appropriate to say, “Yes, I am, and that’s a miracle. Me! A Christian! Who would have ever thought it? Yet he did it, and I’m his.” SHE ~ Timothy J Keller,

1458:A huge shape loomed beside her…a man mounted on a sturdy black dray. It was Devon, she realized in bewilderment. She couldn’t say a word to save her life. He wasn’t dressed for riding--he wasn’t even wearing gloves. More perplexing still, he was wearing a stableman’s low-crowned felt hat, as if he had borrowed it while departing in haste. “Lady Helen asked me to fetch you,” Devon called out, his face unfathomable. “You can either ride back with me, or we’ll stand here and argue in a lightning storm until we’re both flambéed. Personally I’d prefer the latter--it would be better than reading the rest of those account ledgers.” Kathleen stared at him with stunned confusion. In practical terms, it was possible to ride double with Devon back to the estate. The dray, broad-built and calm-tempered, would be more than equal to the task. But as she tried to imagine it, their bodies touching…his arms around her… No. She couldn’t bear being that close to any man. Her flesh crawled at the thought. “I…I can’t ride with you.” Although she tried to sound decisive, her voice was wavering and plaintive. Rain streamed down her face, rivulets trickling into her mouth. Devon’s lips parted as if he were about to deliver a scathing reply. As his gaze traveled over her drenched form, however, his expression softened. “Then you take the horse, and I’ll walk back.” Dumbstruck by the offer, Kathleen could only stare at him. “No,” she eventually managed to say. “But…thank you. Please, you must return to the house.” “We’ll both walk,” he said impatiently, “or we’ll both ride. But I won’t leave you.” “I’ll be perfectly--” She broke off and flinched at a bone-rattling peal of thunder. “Let me take you home.” Devon’s tone was pragmatic, as if they were standing in a parlor instead of a violent late-summer storm. Had he said it in an overbearing manner, Kathleen might have been able to refuse him. But somehow he’d guessed that softening his approach was the best way to undermine her. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

1459:Haymaking After night's thunder far away had rolled The fiery day had a kernel sweet of cold, And in the perfect blue the clouds uncurled, Like the first gods before they made the world And misery, swimming the stormless sea In beauty and in divine gaiety. The smooth white empty road was lightly strewn With leaves - the holly's Autumn falls in June And fir cones standing up stiff in the heat. The mill-foot water tumbled white and lit With tossing crystals, happier than any crowd Of children pouring out of school aloud. And in the little thickets where a sleeper For ever might lie lost, the nettle creeper And garden-warbler sang unceasingly; While over them shrill shrieked in his fierce glee The swift with wings and tail as sharp and narrow As if the bow had flown off with the arrow. Only the scent of woodbine and hay new mown Travelled the road. In the field sloping down, Park-like, to where its willows showed the brook, Haymakers rested. The tosser lay forsook Out in the sun; and the long waggon stood Without its team:it seemed it never would Move from the shadow of that single yew. The team, as still, until their task was due, Beside the labourers enjoyed the shade That three squat oaks mid-feld together made Upon a circle of grass and weed uncut, And on the hollow, once a chalk pit, but Now brimmed with nut and elder-flower so clean. The men leaned on their rakes, about to begin, But still. And all were silent. All was old, This morning time, with a great age untold, Older than Clare and Cobbett, Morland and Crome, Than, at the field's far edge, the farmer's home, A white house crouched at the foot of a great tree. Under the heavens that know not what years be The men, the beasts, the trees, the implements 32 Uttered even what they will in times far hence All of us gone out of the reach of change Immortal in a picture of an old grange. ~ Edward Thomas,

1460:A Christ-Child Day In Australia A COPPER concave of a sky Hangs high above my head. Vague thunder sullenly goes by With dragging, muffled tread. The hot air faints upon the grass, And at its bitter breath, Ten thousand trembling flower-souls pass, With fragrant sighs, to death. There comes no breeze. No breeze has sprung And sweetly blown for days. Dead air in silent sheets has hung, Smooth wavering sheets of haze. The very birds that erstwhile soared Hide hushed in haunts of trees. Nature no longer walks abroad, But crouches on her knees. Crouches and hides her withered face, Above her barren breast, And I forget her yester grace And the clustering mouths she blessed. ’Tis in no alien land I sit, Almost it is mine own. Its fibres to my fibres knit, Its bone into my bone. These are no alien skies I know, Yet something in my blood Calls sharp for breath of ice and snow Across the wide, salt flood. Calls loud and will not be denied, Cries, with imperious tears, And mem’ries that have never died Leap wildly o’er the years: The thrill of England’s winter days, Of England’s frost-sharp air, The ice along her waterways, Her snowfields stretching fair, Her snowfields gleaming through the dark, Her bird with breast aglow, On the white land a crimson mark, —Ah England, England’s snow! Fair as a queen, this far south land, A wayward bride, half won, Her dowry careless flung like sand, Her royal flax unspun. And if beneath her ardent glance Her subjects faint and reel, Does she but melt, stoop to entrance, They kiss her hem and kneel. And I—I kneel. For oft her hand Has gently touched my hair. Then with a throb I rise and stand, —A Queen!—why should she spare! Yet when the Christ-Child mem’ries steal, Some ebb-tide swells to flood. Ah, England—just once more to feel Thy winter in my blood ~ Ethel Turner,

1461:In the meantime, do you have any more questions for me?” His voice was uninflected, but the drawl was gone. I knew that the time for the political discussion was past, for now, and that here at last were the personal issues that had lain between us for so long. I took a deep breath. “No questions. But I have apologies to make. I think, well, I know that I owe you some explanations. For things I said. And did. Stupid things.” He lifted a hand. “Before you proceed any further…” He gave me a rueful half smile as he started pulling off his gloves, one finger at a time. When the left one was off he said, “This might be one of the more spectacular of my mistakes--” With a last tug, he pulled off the right, and I saw the glint of gold on his hand. As he laid aside the gloves and turned back to face me, I saw the ring on his littlest finger, a gold ring carved round with laurel leaves in a particular pattern. And set in the middle was an ekirth that glittered like a nightstar. “That’s my ring,” I said, numb with shock. “You had it made,” he replied. “But now it’s mine.” I can’t say that everything suddenly became clear to me, because it didn’t. I realized only that he was the Unknown, and that I was both horrified and relieved. Suddenly there was too much to say, but nothing I could say. As it turned out, I didn’t have to try. I looked up to see him smiling, and I realized that, as usual, he’d been able to read my face easily. By then my blood was drumming in my ears like distant thunder. “It is time,” he said, “to collect on my wager.” He moved slowly. First, his hands sliding round me and cool light-colored hair drifting against my cheek, and then softly, so softly, the brush of lips against my brow, my eyes, and then my lips. Once, twice, thrice, but no closer. The sensations--like starfire--that glowed through me chased away from my head all thoughts save one, to close that last distance between us. I locked my fingers round his neck and pulled his face again down to mine. ~ Sherwood Smith,

1462:The remaining chain swung down, he wrenched the door out and he was free. The last thing he heard behind him was the oncoming stomp of running feet. Now began flight, that excruciating accompaniment to both the sleep-dream and the drug-dream as well. Down endless flights of stairs that seemed to have increased decimally since he had come up them so many days before. Four, fourteen, forty - there seemed no end to them, no bottom. Round and round he went, hand slapping at the worn guard-rail only at the turns to keep from bulleting head-on into the wall each time. The clamor had come out onto a landing high above him now, endless miles above him; a thin voice came shouting down the stair-well, "There he is! See him down there?" raising the hue and cry to the rest of the pack. Footsteps started cannonading down after him, like avenging thunder from on high. They only added wings to his effortless, almost cascading waterlike flight. Like a drunk, he was incapable of hurting himself. At one turning he went off his feet and rippled down the whole succeeding flight of stair-ribs like a wriggling snake. Then he got up again and plunged ahead, without consciousness of pain or smart. The whole staircase-structure seemed to hitch crazily from side to side with the velocity of his descent, but it was really he that was hitching. But behind him the oncoming thunder kept gaining. Then suddenly, after they'd kept on for hours, the stairs suddenly ended, he'd reached bottom at last. He tore out through a square of blackness at the end of the entrance-hall, and the kindly night received him, took him to itself - along with countless other things that stalk and kill and are dangerous if crossed. He had no knowledge of where he was; if he'd ever had, he'd lost it long ago. The drums of pursuit were still beating a rolling tattoo inside the tenement. He chose a direction at random, fled down the deserted street, the wand of light from a wan street-lamp flicking him in passing, so fast did he scurry by beneath it. ~ Cornell Woolrich,

1463:Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid! Give answer by thy voice, the sea-fowls' screams! When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams? When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid? How long is't since the mighty Power bid Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams? Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams, Or when grey clouds are thy cold coverlid. Thou answer'st not; for thou art dead asleep; Thy life is but two dead eternities-- The last in air, the former in the deep; First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies-- Drowned wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep, Another cannot wake thy giant-size! 'From Kirkcudbright [Keats and Brown] went to Newton Stewart and thence through Wigtonshire to Port Patrick, visiting Glenluce and Stranraer on the way. From Port Patrick they crossed in the mail packet to Ireland, reaching Donaghadee on the 5th of July. They walked from Donaghadee to Belfast and back, having abandoned the idea of seeing the Giant's Causeway on account of the expense,-- crossed again so as to sleep at Port Patrick on the 8th, and then resumed their Scotch walk. Lord Houghton says,-- "Returning from Ireland, the travellers proceeded northwards by the coast, Ailsa Rock constantly in their view. That fine object first appeared to them, in the full sunlight, like a transparent tortoise asleep upon the calm water, then, as they advanced, displaying its lofty shoulders, and, as they still went on, losing its distinctness in the mountains of Arran and the extent of Cantire that rose behind." His Lordship records that the sonnet to Ailsa Rock was written in the inn at Girvan; and, as Keats was at Maybole on the 11th, and Girvan is more than three quarters of the way from Port Patrick to Maybole, the sonnet should be dated the 10th or 11th of July 1818. It appeared in Leigh Hunt's Literary Pocket-book for 1819.' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, To Ailsa Rock ,

1464:Lydia Dick When I was a boy at college, Filling up with classic knowledge, Frequently I wondered why Old Professor Demas Bently Used to praise so eloquently 'Opera Horatii.' Toiling on a season longer Till my reasoning power got stronger, As my observation grew, I became convinced that mellow, Massic-loving poet fellow Horace knew a thing or two Yes, we sophomores figured duly That, if we appraised him truly, Horace must have been a brick; And no wonder that with ranting Rhymes he went a-gallivanting Round with sprightly Lydia Dick! For that pink of female gender Tall and shapely was, and slender, Plump of neck and bust and arms; While the raiment that invested Her so jealously suggested Certain more potential charms. Those dark eyes of her that fired him-Those sweet accents that inspired him, And her crown of glorious hair-These things baffle my description; I should have a fit conniption If I tried--so I forbear! May be Lydia had her betters; Anyway, this man of letters Took that charmer as his pick; Glad--yes, glad I am to know it! 210 I, a fin de siecle poet, Sympathize with Lydia Dick! Often in my arbor shady I fall thinking of that lady And the pranks she used to play; And I'm cheered--for all we sages Joy when from those distant ages Lydia dances down our way. Otherwise some folks might wonder With good reason why in thunder Learned professors, dry and prim, Find such solace in the giddy Pranks that Horace played with Liddy Or that Liddy played on him. Still this world of ours rejoices In those ancient singing voices, And our hearts beat high and quick, To the cadence of old Tiber Murmuring praise of roistering Liber And of charming Lydia Dick. Still, Digentia, downward flowing, Prattleth to the roses blowing By the dark, deserted grot; Still, Soracte, looming lonely, Watcheth for the coming only Of a ghost that cometh not. ~ Eugene Field,

1465:The foaming stream from out the rock    With thunder roar begins to rush, The oak falls prostrate at the shock,    And mountain-wrecks attend the gush. With rapturous awe, in wonder lost,    The wanderer hearkens to the sound; From cliff to cliff he hears it tossed,    Yet knows not whither it is bound: 'Tis thus that song's bright waters pour From sources never known before. In union with those dreaded ones    That spin life's thread all-silently, Who can resist the singer's tones?    Who from his magic set him free? With wand like that the gods bestow,    He guides the heaving bosom's chords, He steeps it in the realms below,    He bears it, wondering, heavenward, And rocks it, 'twixt the grave and gay, On feeling's scales that trembling sway. As when before the startled eyes    Of some glad throng, mysteriously, With giant-step, in spirit-guise,    Appears a wondrous deity, Then bows each greatness of the earth    Before the stranger heaven-born, Mute are the thoughtless sounds of mirth,    While from each face the mask is torn, And from the truth's triumphant might Each work of falsehood takes to flight. So from each idle burden free,    When summoned by the voice of song, Man soars to spirit-dignity,    Receiving force divinely strong: Among the gods is now his home,    Naught earthly ventures to approach All other powers must now be dumb,    No fate can on his realms encroach; Care's gloomy wrinkles disappear, Whilst music's charms still linger here, As after long and hopeless yearning,    And separation's bitter smart, A child, with tears repentant burning,    Clings fondly to his mother's heart So to his youthful happy dwelling,    To rapture pure and free from stain, All strange and false conceits expelling,    Song guides the wanderer back again, In faithful Nature's loving arm, From chilling precepts to grow warm. ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Power Of Song ,

1466:Sic Semper Liberatoribus! As one who feels the breathless nightmare grip His heart-strings, and through visioned horrors fares, Now on a thin-ledged chasm's rock-crumbling lip, Now on a tottering pinnacle that dare The front of heaven, while always unawares Weird monsters start above, around, beneath, Each glaring from some uglier mask of death, So the White Czar imperial progress made Through terror-haunted days. A shock, a cry Whose echoes ring the globe-the spectre's laid. Hurled o'er the abyss, see the crowned martyr lie Resting in peace-fear, change, and death gone by. Fit end for nightmare-mist of blood and tears, Red climax to the slow, abortive years. The world draws breath-one long, deep-shuddering sigh, At that which dullest brain prefigured clear As swift-sure bolt from thunder-threatening sky. How heaven-anointed humblest lots appear Beside his glittering eminence of fear; His spiked crown, sackcloth purple, poisoned cates, His golden palace honey-combed with hates. Well is it done! A most heroic plan, Which after myriad plots succeeds at last In robbing of his life this poor old man, Whose sole offense-his birthright-has but passed To fresher blood, with younger strength recast. What men are these, who, clamoring to be free, Would bestialize the world to what they be? Whose sons are they who made the snow-wreathed head Their frenzy's target? In their Russian veins, What alien current urged on to smite him dead, Whose word had loosed a million Russian chains? What brutes were they for whom such speechless pains, So royally endured, no human thrill Awoke, in hearts drunk with the lust to kill? 186 Not brutes! No tiger of the wilderness, No jackal of the jungle, bears such brand As man's black heart, who shrinks not to confess The desperate deed of his deliberate hand. Our kind, our kin, have done this thing. We stand Bowed earthward, red with shame, to see such wrong Prorogue Love's cause and Truth's-God knows how long! ~ Emma Lazarus,

1467:Two Statesmen In that fair city by the inland sea, Where Blaine unhived his Presidential bee, Frank Pixley's meeting with George Gorham sing, Celestial muse, and what events did spring From the encounter of those mighty sons Of thunder, and of slaughter, and of guns. Great Gorham first, his yearning tooth to sate And give him stomach for the day's debate, Entering a restaurant, with eager mien, Demands an ounce of bacon and a bean. The trembling waiter, by the statesman's eye Smitten with terror, hastens to comply; Nor chairs nor tables can his speed retard, For famine's fixed and horrible regard He takes for menace. As he shaking flew, Lo! the portentous Pixley heaved in view! Before him yawned invisible the cell, Unheard, behind, the warden's footsteps fell. Thrice in convention rising to his feet, He thrice had been thrust back into his seat; Thrice had protested, been reminded thrice The nation had no need of his advice. Balked of his will to set the people right, His soul was gloomy though his hat was white, So fierce his mien, with provident accord The waiters swarmed him, thinking him a lord. He spurned them, roaring grandly to their chief: 'Give me (Fred. Crocker pays) a leg of beef!' His wandering eye's deluminating flame Fell upon Gorham and the crisis came! For Pixley scowled and darkness filled the room Till Gorham's flashing orbs dispelled the gloom. The patrons of the place, by fear dismayed, Sprang to the street and left their scores unpaid. So, when Jove thunders and his lightnings gleam To sour the milk and curdle, too, the cream, And storm-clouds gather on the shadowed hill, The ass forsakes his hay, the pig his swill. Hotly the heroes now engaged-their breath 643 Came short and hard, as in the throes of death. They clenched their hands, their weapons brandished high, Cut, stabbed, and hewed, nor uttered any cry, But gnashed their teeth and struggled on! In brief, One ate his bacon, t'other one his beef. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

1468:Our lips just trespassed on those inner labyrinths hidden deep within our ears, filled them with the private music of wicked words, hers in many languages, mine in the off color of my own tongue, until as our tones shifted, and our consonants spun and squealed, rattled faster, hesitated, raced harder, syllables soon melting with groans, or moans finding purchase in new words, or old words, or made-up words, until we gathered up our heat and refused to release it, enjoying too much the dark language we had suddenly stumbled upon, craved to, carved to, not a communication really but a channeling of our rumored desires, hers for all I know gone to Black Forests and wolves, mine banging back to a familiar form, that great revenant mystery I still could only hear the shape of, which in spite of our separate lusts and individual cries still continued to drive us deeper into stranger tones, our mutual desire to keep gripping the burn fueled by sound, hers screeching, mine – I didn’t hear mine – only hears, probably counter-pointing mine, a high-pitched cry, then a whisper dropping unexpectedly to practically a bark, a grunt, whatever, no sense any more, and suddenly no more curves either, just the straight away, some line crossed, where every fractured sound already spoken finally compacts into one long agonizing word, easily exceeding a hundred letters, even thunder, anticipating the inevitable letting go, when the heat is ultimately too much to bear, threatening to burn, scar, tear it all apart, yet tempting enough to hold onto for even one second more, to extend it all, if we can, as if by getting that much closer to the heat, that much more enveloped, would prove … - which when we did clutch, hold, postpone, did in fact prove too much after all, seconds too much, and impossible to refuse, so blowing all of everything apart, shivers and shakes and deep in her throat a thousand letters crashing in a long unmodulated fall, resonating deep within my cochlea and down the cochlear nerve, a last fit of fury describing in lasting detail the shape of things already come. Too bad dark languages rarely survive. ~ Mark Z Danielewski,

1469:Cities Vagabonds These are cities! And this is the people for whom these Alleghenys and Lebanons of dream have been raised! Castles of wood and crystal move on tracks and invisible winches. Old craters ringed with mammoth statues and coppery palms roar melodiously in flames. Festivals of love reverberate from the canals suspended behind the castles. Chimes echo through the gorges like a chase. Corporations of giant singers assemble, their vestments and oriflames brilliant as the mountain-peaks. On platforms in the midst of gulfs, Rolands brazen their bravuras. From abysmal catwalks and the rooftops of inns, a burning sky hoists flags upon the masts. The collapse of apotheosis unites the heights to the depths where seraphic shecentaurs wind among the avalanches. Above the plateaus of the highest reaches, the sea, troubled by the perpetual birth of Venus and loaded with choral fleets amid an uproar of pearls and precious conches, grows dark at times with mortal thunder. On the slopes, harvests of flowers as big as our weapons and goblets are bellowing. Processions of Mabs in red-opaline scale the ravines. On high, their feet in the waterfalls and briars, stags give suck to Diana. 27 Bacchantes of the suburbs weep, and the moon burns and howls. Venus enters the caves of the black-smiths and hermits. Clusters of belfries repeat the ideas of the people. Issues from castles of bone an unknown music. In the boroughs legends are born and enthusiasm germinate. A paradise of storms collapses. Savages dance without stopping the festival of night. And, for one hour, I descended into the swarm of a boulevard of Baghdad where groups of peple were singing the joy of the new work, circulating under a heavy wind without being able to escape those fabulous phantoms of the mountains to which one must return. What good arms, what wondrous hour will restore to me that region whence come my slumbers and least movements? ~ Arthur Rimbaud,

1470: Epiphany Immortal, moveless, calm, alone, august, A silence throned, to just and to unjust One Lord of still unutterable love, I saw Him, Shiva, like a brooding dove Close-winged upon her nest. The outcasts came, The sinners gathered to that quiet flame, The demons by the other sterner gods Rejected from their luminous abodes Gathered around the Refuge of the lost Soft-smiling on that wild and grisly host. All who were refugeless, wretched, unloved, The wicked and the good together moved Naturally to Him, the shelterer sweet, And found their heaven at their Master's feet. The vision changed and in its place there stood A Terror red as lightning or as blood. His strong right hand a javelin advanced And as He shook it, earthquake stumbling danced Across the hemisphere, ruin and plague Rained out of heaven, disasters swift and vague Neighboured, a marching multitude of ills. His foot strode forward to oppress the hills, And at the vision of His burning eyes The hearts of men grew faint with dread surmise Of sin and punishment. Their cry was loud, "O master of the stormwind and the cloud, Spare, Rudra, spare! Show us that other form Auspicious, not incarnate wrath and storm." The God of Force, the God of Love are one; Not least He loves whom most He smites. Alone Who towers above fear and plays with grief, Defeat and death, inherits full relief From blindness and beholds the single Form, Love masking Terror, Peace supporting Storm. 279 280 Calcutta and Chandernagore, 1907 - 1910 The Friend of Man helps him with life and death Until he knows. Then, freed from mortal breath, Grief, pain, resentment, terror pass away. He feels the joy of the immortal play; He has the silence and the unflinching force, He knows the oneness and the eternal course. He too is Rudra and thunder and the Fire, He Shiva and the white Light no shadows tire, The Strength that rides abroad on Time's wide wings, The Calm in the heart of all immortal things. ~ Sri Aurobindo, - Epiphany ,

1471:Cold, cold is the blast when December is howling, Cold are the damps on a dying man's brow,-- Stern are the seas when the wild waves are rolling, And sad is the grave where a loved one lies low; But colder is scorn from the being who loved thee, More stern is the sneer from the friend who has proved thee, More sad are the tears when their sorrows have moved thee, Which mixed with groans anguish and wild madness flow-- And ah! poor has felt all this horror, Full long the fallen victim contended with fate: Till a destitute outcast abandoned to sorrow, She sought her babe's food at her ruiner's gate-- Another had charmed the remorseless betrayer, He turned laughing aside from her moans and her prayer, She said nothing, but wringing the wet from her hair, Crossed the dark mountain side, though the hour it was late. 'Twas on the wild height of the dark Penmanmawr, That the form of the wasted -- reclined; She shrieked to the ravens that croaked from afar, And she sighed to the gusts of the wild sweeping wind.-- I call not yon rocks where the thunder peals rattle, I call not yon clouds where the elements battle, But thee, cruel -- I call thee unkind!'-- Then she wreathed in her hair the wild flowers of the mountain, And deliriously laughing, a garland entwined, She bedewed it with tears, then she hung o'er the fountain, And leaving it, cast it a prey to the wind. 'Ah! go,' she exclaimed, 'when the tempest is yelling, 'Tis unkind to be cast on the sea that is swelling, But I left, a pitiless outcast, my dwelling, My garments are torn, so they say is my mind--' Not long lived --, but over her grave Waved the desolate form of a storm-blasted yew, Around it no demons or ghosts dare to rave, But spirits of peace steep her slumbers in dew. Then stay thy swift steps mid the dark mountain heather, Though chill blow the wind and severe is the weather, For perfidy, traveller! cannot bereave her, Of the tears, to the tombs of the innocent due.-- JULY, 1810. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Song. Cold, Cold Is The Blast When December Is Howling ,

1472:A Convalescin' Woman A convalescin' woman does the strangest sort o' things, An' it's wonderful the courage that a little new strength brings; O, it's never safe to leave her for an hour or two alone, Or you'll find th' doctor's good work has been quickly overthrown. There's that wife o' mine, I reckon she's a sample of 'em all; She's been mighty sick, I tell you, an' to-day can scarcely crawl, But I left her jes' this mornin' while I fought potater bugs, An' I got back home an' caught her in the back yard shakin' rugs. I ain't often cross with Nellie, an' I let her have her way, But it made me mad as thunder when I got back home to-day An' found her doin' labor that'd tax a big man's strength; An' I guess I lost my temper, for I scolded her at length, 'Til I seen her teardrops fallin' an' she said: 'I couldn't stand To see those rugs so dirty, so I took 'em all in hand, An' it ain't hurt me nuther- see, I'm gettin' strong again- ' An' I said: 'Doggone it! can't ye leave sich work as that fer men?' Once I had her in a hospittle fer weeks an' weeks an' weeks, An' she wasted most to nothin', an' th' roses left her cheeks; An' one night I feared I'd lose her; 'twas the turnin' point, I guess, Coz th' next day I remember that th' doctor said: 'Success!' Well, I brought her home an' told her that for two months she must stay A-sittin' in her rocker an' jes' watch th' kids at play. An' th' first week she was patient, but I mind the way I swore On th' day when I discovered 'at she'd scrubbed th' kitchen floor. O, you can't keep wimmin quiet, an' they ain't a bit like men; They're hungerin' every minute jes' to get to work again; An' you've got to watch 'em allus, when you know they're weak an' ill, Coz th' minute that yer back is turned they'll labor fit to kill. Th' house ain't cleaned to suit 'em an' they seem to fret an' fume 'Less they're busy doin' somethin' with a mop or else a broom; An' it ain't no use to scold 'em an' it ain't no use to swear, Coz th' next time they will do it jes' the minute you ain't there. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

1473:1094 What A Sick Woman Does ACONVALESCIN' woman does the strangest sort o' things, An' it's wonderful the courage that a little new strength brings; O, it's never safe to leave her for an hour or two alone, Or you'll find th' doctor's good work has been quickly overthrown. There's that wife o' mine, I reckon she's a sample of 'em all; She's been mighty sick, I tell you, an' today can scarcely crawl, But I left her jes' this mornin' while I fought potater bugs, An' I got back home an' caught her in the back yard shakin' rugs. I ain't often cross with Nellie, an' I let her have her way, But it made me mad as thunder when I got back home that day An' found her doin' labor that'd tax a big man's strength, An' I guess I lost my temper/for I scolded her at length; 'Til I seen her tear drops fallin' anVshe said: ' I couldn't stand T' see those rugs so dirty, so I took 'em all in hand, An' it ain't hurt me nuther, see I 'm gettin' strong again — ' An' I said: ' Doggone it! Can't ye leave sich work as that fer men? ' Once I had her in a hospittle fer weeks an' weeks an' weeks, An' she wasted most t' nothin', an' th' roses left her cheeks; An' one night I feared I 'd l se her; 't was the turnin' point, I guess, Coz th' next day I remember that th' doctor said: 'Success!' Well, I brought her home an' told her that for two months she must stay A-sitttn' in her rocker an' jes' watch th' kids at play; An' th' first week she was patient, but I mind the way I swore On th' day when I discovered 'at she 'd scrubbed th' kitchen floor. O, you can't keep wimmin quiet an' they ain't a bit like men, They 're hungerin' every minute jes' t' get t' work again; An' you've got t' watch '«m allus, when you know they're weak an' ill, Coz th' minute that yer back is turned they'll labor fit t' kill. Th' house ain't cleaned t' suit 'em an' they seem t' fret an' fume 'Less they 're busy doin' somethin' with a mop or else a broom; An' it ain't no use t' scold 'em an' it ain't no use t' swear, Coz th' next time they will do it jes' the minute you ain't there. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

1474:Under my window-ledge the waters race, Otters below and moor-hens on the top, Run for a mile undimmed in Heaven's face Then darkening through 'dark' Raftery's 'cellar' drop, Run underground, rise in a rocky place In Coole demesne, and there to finish up Spread to a lake and drop into a hole. What's water but the generated soul? Upon the border of that lake's a wood Now all dry sticks under a wintry sun, And in a copse of beeches there I stood, For Nature's pulled her tragic buskin on And all the rant's a mirror of my mood: At sudden thunder of the mounting swan I turned about and looked where branches break The glittering reaches of the flooded lake. Another emblem there! That stormy white But seems a concentration of the sky; And, like the soul, it sails into the sight And in the morning's gone, no man knows why; And is so lovely that it sets to right What knowledge or its lack had set awry, So atrogantly pure, a child might think It can be murdered with a spot of ink. Sound of a stick upon the floor, a sound From somebody that toils from chair to chair; Beloved books that famous hands have bound, Old marble heads, old pictures everywhere; Great rooms where travelled men and children found Content or joy; a last inheritor Where none has reigned that lacked a name and fame Or out of folly into folly came. A spot whereon the founders lived and died Seemed once more dear than life; ancestral trees, Or gardens rich in memory glorified Marriages, alliances and families, And every bride's ambition satisfied. Where fashion or mere fantasy decrees We shift about - all that great glory spent - Like some poor Arab tribesman and his tent. We were the last romantics - chose for theme Traditional sanctity and loveliness; Whatever's written in what poets name The book of the people; whatever most can bless The mind of man or elevate a rhyme; But all is changed, that high horse riderless, Though mounted in that saddle Homer rode Where the swan drifts upon a darkening flood. ~ William Butler Yeats, Coole Park And Ballylee, 1931 ,

1475:I like storms. Thunder torrential rain, puddles, wet shoes. When the clouds roll in, I get filled with this giddy expectation. Everything is more beautiful in the rain. Don't ask me why. But it’s like this whole other realm of opportunity. I used to feel like a superhero, riding my bike over the dangerously slick roads, or maybe an Olympic athlete enduring rough trials to make it to the finish line. On sunny days, as a girl, I could still wake up to that thrilled feeling. You made me giddy with expectation, just like a symphonic rainstorm. You were a tempest in the sun, the thunder in a boring, cloudless sky. I remember I’d shovel in my breakfast as fast as I could, so I could go knock on your door. We’d play all day, only coming back for food and sleep. We played hide and seek, you’d push me on the swing, or we’d climb trees. Being your sidekick gave me a sense of home again. You see, when I was ten, my mom died. She had cancer, and I lost her before I really knew her. My world felt so insecure, and I was scared. You were the person that turned things right again. With you, I became courageous and free. It was like the part of me that died with my mom came back when I met you, and I didn’t hurt if I knew I had you. Then one day, out of the blue, I lost you, too. The hurt returned, and I felt sick when I saw you hating me. My rainstorm was gone, and you became cruel. There was no explanation. You were just gone. And my heart was ripped open. I missed you. I missed my mom. What was worse than losing you, was when you started to hurt me. Your words and actions made me hate coming to school. They made me uncomfortable in my own home. Everything still hurts, but I know none of it is my fault. There are a lot of words that I could use to describe you, but the only one that includes sad, angry, miserable, and pitiful is “coward.” I a year, I’ll be gone, and you’ll be nothing but some washout whose height of existence was in high school. You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought. I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars. ~ Penelope Douglas,

1476:In the words of the master: infinity but without melody. In the second place, with regard to the overthrowing,--this belongs at least in part, to physiology. Let us, in the first place, examine the instruments. A few of them would convince even our intestines (--they throw open doors, as Handel would say), others becharm our very marrow. The colour of the melody is all-important here, the melody itself is of no importance. Let us be precise about this point. To what other purpose should we spend our strength? Let us be characteristic in tone even to the point of foolishness! If by means of tones we allow plenty of scope for guessing, this will be put to the credit of our intellects. Let us irritate nerves, let us strike them dead: let us handle thunder and lightning,--that is what overthrows.{~ Friedrich NietzscheHORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~ Friedrich Nietzsche} But what overthrows best, is passion .--We must try and be clear concerning this question of passion. Nothing is cheaper than passion! All the virtues of counterpoint may be dispensed with, there is no need to have learnt anything,--but passion is always within our reach! Beauty is difficult: let us beware of beauty!{~ Friedrich NietzscheHORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~ Friedrich Nietzsche} And also of melody! However much in earnest we may otherwise be about the ideal, let us slander, my friends, let us slander,--let us slander melody! Nothing is more dangerous than a beautiful melody! Nothing is more certain to ruin taste! My friends, if people again set about loving beautiful melodies, we are lost!{~ Friedrich NietzscheHORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~ Friedrich Nietzsche} First principle : melody is immoral. Proof : "Palestrina". Application : "Parsifal." The absence of melody is in itself sanctifying.{~ Friedrich NietzscheHORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~ Friedrich Nietzsche} And this is the definition of passion. Passion--or the acrobatic feats of ugliness on the tight-rope of enharmonic--My friends, let us dare to be ugly! Wagner dared it! Let us heave the mud of the most repulsive harmonies undauntedly before us. We must not even spare our hands! Only thus, shall we become natural .{~ Friedrich NietzscheHORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~ Friedrich Nietzsche} ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

1477:I am made to sow the thistle for wheat; the nettle for a nourishing dainty I have planted a false oath in the earth, it has brought forth a poison tree I have chosen the serpent for a councellor & the dog for a schoolmaster to my children I have blotted out from light & living the dove & the nightingale And I have caused the earthworm to beg from door to door I have taught the thief a secret path into the house of the just I have taught pale artifice to spread his nets upon the morning My heavens are brass my earth is iron my moon a clod of clay My sun a pestilence burning at noon & a vapor of death in night What is the price of Experience do men buy it for a song Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No it is bought with the price Of all that a man hath his house his wife his children Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy And in the withered field where the farmer plows for bread in vain It is an easy thing to triumph in the summers sun And in the vintage & to sing on the waggon loaded with corn It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted To speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wanderer To listen to the hungry ravens cry in wintry season When the red blood is filled with wine & with the marrow of lambs It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements To hear a dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughter house moan To see a god on every wind & a blessing on every blast To hear the sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies house To rejoice in the blight that covers his field, & the sickness that cuts off his children While our olive & vine sing & laugh round our door & our children bring fruits and flowers Then the groans & the dolor are quite forgotten & the slave grinding at the mill And the captive in chains & the poor in the prison, & the soldier in the field When the shattered bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity Thus could I sing & thus rejoice, but it is not so with me! ~ William Blake,

1478:Thora Come under my cloak, my darling! Thou little Norwegian main! Nor wind, nor rain, nor rolling sea Shall chill or make thee afraid. Come close, little blue-eyed maiden, Nestle within my arm; Thought the lightning leaps and the thunder peals, We shall be safe from harm. Swift from the dim horizon The dark sails scud for the land. Look, how the rain-cloud drops its fringe About us on either hand! And high from our plunging bowsprit Dashes the cold white spray, And storm and tumult fill the air And trouble the summer day. But thou fearest nothing, darling, Thought the tempest mutter and brood, Though the wild wind tosses they bright brown locks, And flutters thy grass-green snood. I kiss they wise wide forehead, While the thunder rolls so grand; And I hold the curve of they lovely cheek In the hollow of my hand; And I watch the sky and the ocean, And I study they gentle face -Its lines of sweetness and power, Thy type of they strong Norse race. And I wonder what thy life will be, Thou dear and charming child, Who hast drifted so far across the world To a home so lone and wild. 37 Rude and rough and sad, perhaps; Anxious and full of toil; But I think no sorrow or hardship Thine inner peace can spoil. For better than kingly fortunes Is the wealth that thou dost hold -A nature perfectly balanced, A beauty of heart untold. Thou wilt open the door of patience, When sorry shall come and knock; But to every evil, unworthy thing Wilt thou the gates fast lock. So shall thy day be blessed, Whatever may be thy lot. But what I am silently pondering Thou understandest not, And liftest to me thy steadfast eyes, Calm as if heaven looked through. Do all the maidens in Norway Have eyes so clear and blue? See, darling, where, in the distance, The cloud breaks up in the sky, And lets a ray of sunshine fall Where our far-off islands lie! White they gleam, and the sea grows bright And silver shines the foam. A little space, and our anchor drops In the haven of Love and Home! ~ Celia Thaxter,

1479:Thy Justice seems; yet to say truth, too late, I thus contest; then should have been refusd Those terms whatever, when they were propos’d: Thou didst accept them; wilt thou enjoy the good, Then cavil the conditions? and though God Made thee without thy leave, what if thy Son Prove disobedient, and reprov’d, retort, Wherefore didst thou beget me? I sought it not: Wouldst thou admit for his contempt of thee That proud excuse? yet him not thy election, But Natural necessity begot. God made thee of choice his own, and of his own To serve him, thy reward was of his grace, Thy punishment then justly is at his Will. Be it so, for I submit, his doom is fair, That dust I am, and shall to dust returne: O welcom hour whenever! why delayes His hand to execute what his Decree Fixd on this day? why do I overlive, Why am I mockt with death, and length’nd out To deathless pain? how gladly would I meet Mortalitie my sentence, and be Earth Insensible, how glad would lay me down As in my Mothers lap? there I should rest And sleep secure; his dreadful voice no more Would Thunder in my ears, no fear of worse To mee and to my ofspring would torment me With cruel expectation. Yet one doubt Pursues me still, least all I cannot die, Least that pure breath of Life, the Spirit of Man Which God inspir’d, cannot together perish With this corporeal Clod; then in the Grave, Or in some other dismal place, who knows But I shall die a living Death? O thought Horrid, if true! yet why? it was but breath Of Life that sinn’d; what dies but what had life And sin? the Bodie properly hath neither. All of me then shall die: let this appease The doubt, since humane reach no further knows. For though the Lord of all be infinite, Is his wrauth also? be it, man is not so, But mortal doom’d. How can he exercise Wrath without end on Man whom Death must end? Can he make deathless Death? that were to make Strange contradiction, which to God himself Impossible is held, as Argument Of weakness, not of Power. Will he, draw out, For angers sake, finite to infinite In punisht man, to satisfie his rigour Satisfi’d never; that were to extend His Sentence beyond dust and Natures Law, By which all Causes else according still To the reception of thir matter act, Not ~ John Milton,

1480:The Voice Calling IN the hush of April weather, With the bees in budding heather, And the white clouds floating, floating, and the sunshine falling broad; While my children down the hill Run and leap, and I sit still,-Through the silence, through the silence art Thou calling, O my God? Through my husband's voice that prayeth, Though he knows not what he sayeth, Is it Thou who in Thy Holy Word hast solemn words for me? And when he clasps me fast, And smiles fondly o'er the past, And talks, hopeful, of the future--Lord, do I hear only Thee? Not in terror nor in thunder Comes Thy voice, although it sunder Flesh from spirit, soul from body, human bliss from human pain: All the work that was to do, All the joys so sweet and new Which Thou shewed'st me in a vision--Moses-like--and hid'st again. From this Pisgah, lying humbled, The long desert where I stumbled, And the fair plains I shall never reach, seem equal, clear and far: On this mountain-top of ease Thou wilt bury me in peace; While my tribes march onward, unto Canaan and war. In my boy's loud laughter ringing, In the sigh more soft than singing Of my baby girl that nestles up unto this mortal breast, After every voice most dear Comes a whisper--'Rest not here.' And the rest Thou art preparing, is it best, Lord, is it best? 'Lord, a little, little longer!' Sobs the earth-love, growing stronger: He will miss me, and go mourning through his solitary days. And heaven were scarcely heaven 191 If these lambs which Thou hast given Were to slip out of our keeping and be lost in the world's ways. Lord, it is not fear of dying Nor an impious denying Of Thy will, which forevermore on earth, in heaven, be done: But the love that desperate clings Unto these my precious things In the beauty of the daylight, and the glory of the sun. Ah, Thou still art calling, calling, With a soft voice unappalling; And it vibrates in far circles through the everlasting years; When Thou knockest, even so! I will arise and go.-What, m little ones, more violets?--Nay, be patient--mother hears. ~ Dinah Maria Mulock Craik,

1481:Red River Valley To the Red River Valley we are going, For to get us some trains and some trucks. But if I had my say so about it, I'd still be at home in the sack. Come and sit by my side at the briefing, Do not hasten to bid me adieu. To the Red River Valley we're going, And I'm flying four in Flight Blue. We went for to check on the weather, And they said it was clear as could be. I lost my wingman 'round the field, And the rest augured in out at sea. S-2 said there's no flak where we're going, S-2 said there's no flak on the way. There's a dark overcast o'er the target, I'm beginning to doubt what they say. To the valley they say we are going, And many strange sights will we see. But the one there that held my attention, Was the SAM that they threw up at me. To the valley he said he was flying, And he never saw the medal that he earned. Many jocks have flown into the valley, And a number have never returned. So I listened as he briefed on the mission, Tonight at the bar Teak Flight will sing. But we're going to the Red River Valley, And today you are flying my wing. Oh, the flak is so thick in the valley, That the MIGS and the SAMs we don't need. So fly high and down-sun in the valley, And guard well the ass of Teak Lead. 184 Now things turn to shit in the valley, And the briefing I gave, you don't heed. They'll be waiting at the Hanoi Hilton, And it's fish heads and rice for Teak Lead. We refueled on the way to the valley, In the States it had always been fun. But with thunder and lightning all around us, 'Twas the last AAR for Teak One. When he came to a bridge in the valley, He saw a duty that he couldn't shun. For the first to roll in on the target, Was my leader, old Teak Number One. Oh, he flew through the flak toward the target, With his bombs and his rockets drew a bead. But he never pulled out of his bomb run, 'Twas fatal for another Teak Lead. So come sit by my side at the briefing, We will sit there and tickle the beads. For we're going to the Red River Valley, And my call sign for today is Teak Lead. ~ Anonymous,

1482:Where The Sun Rises If you come back, There will be no sun, like the day when we met for the last time in your room. And there were no rains, but only thunder and stars. ARSD hostel, wasn’t it? There was no sun, but we spoke about tomorrow’s sun that will gaze at its face in the mirror called the Red River. If Brahma wouldn’t have married, and Parashuram wouldn’t have killed his mother, this river, the mirror of the rising sun, would have remained tumultous, caged, like this heart today, in the Parashuram Kunda, forever. If you have a mother, and a father who still earns and orders, you can’t bathe there. If you bathe there, all sins are washed away Like peace, after the sun rose in Assam in a green flag. Parashuram bathed there, and like blood, his axe descended But still, he is the mother-killer. Parashuram, there is blood on your hands your mother’s. If you come back, what will you bring? the Red River is redder now. During independence Rupkonwar sang a song, jingoistic, nationalistic: we aren’t scared of sacrificing our lives we will make the Brahmaputra red with our blood, On the altar we will lay down our necks, even if the priest runs away terrified. What will you bring? Those days are no more, Those days: when young Assamese men sang so that the whites would go away Sang, so that more young men would come and join the processions. 12 Green was there, even in that flag, And if there was blood in nineteen-forty seven, there is still, the Luit has become redder, only that’s the difference. I don’t know what happened in Burma’s forests, Did you bathe in the Lake of No Return? What will you bring for me, if you come at all? mosquitoes, malaria, wounds and jaundice? Or hunger for flesh and food to the point where flesh will be food and food will be flesh Flesh will be food and food will be flesh Flesh and food. Nobody will cook for you, Nor me. Flesh and food are the same now, A redder river weeps, not for you, But for peace and a natural sun rise, Yearns for redness from the sun floating between clouds, Not in a green flag. ~ Aruni Kashyap,

1483:He did atrocious things, but it was him I wanted. Always, only him. Troy stopped when we were nose to nose. Toe to toe. I loved watching those eyes from up-close. They were so ocean blue, no wonder they made my head swim. “I love you, Red. I love you determined, tough, innocent, resilient…” His brows furrowed as he drank me in, stroking the curve of my face with his calloused fingertips. “I love you broken, insecure, scared, furious and pissed off…” He let a small smile loose. I actually felt it, even though it was on his lips. “I love every part of you, the good and the bad, the hopeless and the assertive. We don’t just love. We heal each other with every touch and complete each other with ever kiss. And fuck, I know it’s corny as hell, but that’s what I need. You’re what I need.” My eyes fluttered shut, a lone tear hanging from the tip of my eyelash. “We don’t have ordinary words between us. You always set my fucking brain on fire when you talk to me. We don’t even have ordinary moments of silence. I always feel like I’m playing with you or being played by you when you’re around. And I refuse to let you walk out on this, on us.” He cupped my cheeks and I locked his palms in place, tightening my grip. I never wanted him to let go. He dipped his head down, tilting his forehead against mine. I knew he was right. Knew that I’d already forgiven him. Probably before I even knew what he did, when we were still living together. Hell, probably on that dance floor, when I was nine. My capturer. My monster. My savior. “I’m an asshole, was an asshole, and have every intention of staying an asshole. It’s the makeup of my fucking DNA. But I want to be your asshole. To you, I can be good. Maybe even great. For you, I’ll stop the rain from falling and the thunder from cracking and the wind from fucking blowing. And yes, I sure as hell knew you’d come back. You came straight back into my arms, flew back to your nest, lovebird. Now why would you do that if you didn’t love the shit out of me?” My eyes roamed his face. His hands felt delicious on my skin. It was like he was pumping life into me with his fingertips. Like he made me whole before I even knew parts of me were missing. ~ L J Shen,

1484:The Ten Commandments EXODUS 20 And God spoke all these words, saying, 2“I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. 3“You shall have no other gods before [1] me. 4“You shall not make for yourself a carved image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. 5You shall not bow down to them or serve them, for I the LORD your God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and the fourth generation of those who hate me, 6but showing steadfast love to thousands [2] of those who love me and keep my commandments. 7“You shall not take the name of the LORD your God in vain, for the LORD will not hold him guiltless who takes his name in vain. 8“Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. 9Six days you shall labor, and do all your work, 10but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the LORD your God. On it you shall not do any work, you, or your son, or your daughter, your male servant, or your female servant, or your livestock, or the sojourner who is within your gates. 11For in six days the LORD made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, and rested on the seventh day. Therefore the LORD blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy. 12“Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long in the land that the LORD your God is giving you. 13“You shall not murder. [3] 14“You shall not commit adultery. 15“You shall not steal. 16“You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor. 17“You shall not covet your neighbor’s house; you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or his male servant, or his female servant, or his ox, or his donkey, or anything that is your neighbor’s.” 18Now when all the people saw the thunder and the flashes of lightning and the sound of the trumpet and the mountain smoking, the people were afraid [4] and trembled, and they stood far off 19and said to Moses, “You speak to us, and we will listen; but do not let God speak to us, lest we die.” 20Moses said to the people, “Do not fear, for God has come to test you, that the fear of him may be before you, that you may not sin.” 21The people stood far off, while Moses drew near to the thick darkness where God was. ~ Anonymous,

1485:What an idiot he was! Had he really thought he could get away with kissing a marquess's daughter? And not just any marquess's daughter, either. Celia looking oh so tempting in her sumptuous purple gown. Lovely, angry Celia. Lady Celia, he reminded himself. But he'd never be able to think of her like that again, not when the taste and smell of her still filled his senses. Hearing voices behind him, he slipped into an empty room to wrangle his emotions into some semblance of control. But it was no use. He could still feel her body yielding to his, still hear her rapid breathing as he'd taken every advantage. Damn her and her soft mouth and her delicate sighs and her fingers curling into the nape of his neck so that all he wanted to do was press her down onto a bench... "Hell and blazes!" He thrust his hands through his hair. What in thunder was he supposed to do about her? And why had she let him kiss her, anyway? Why had she waited until he'd made a complete fool of himself before she'd drawn that damned pistol? Oh. Right. That was why. To make a fool of him herself. To lull him into a false sense of security so she could prove she could control any situation. Well, he'd stymied that, but it was little consolation. He'd behaved like a damned mooncalf, devouring her mouth as if he were a wolf and she were supper. If he'd allowed her to speak of their kiss, she probably would have pointed out exactly how insolent he'd been. Would have warned him never to do anything so impudent again. She didn't need to tell him. He'd learned his lesson. Yes. He had. The memory of her mouth opening beneath his surged up inside him, and he balled his hands into fists. No. He hadn't. All he'd learned was that he wanted her more intensely now than ever. He wanted to kiss her again, and not just her mouth but her elegant throat and her delicate shoulder and the soft, tender mounds of her breasts... A curse exploded out of him. This was insanity! He had to stop making himself mad by thinking about her as if- "There you are, sir," said a voice behind him. I thought that might have been you who came in here." "What the hell is it?" he growled as he rounded on whoever had been fool enough to run him to ground. ~ Sabrina Jeffries,

1486:Rosewater was on the next bed, reading, and Billy drew him into the conversation, asked him what he was reading this time. So Rosewater told him. It was The Gospel from Outer Space, by Kilgore Trout. It was about a visitor from outer space, shaped very much like a Tralfamadorian by the way. The visitor from outer space made a serious study of Christianity, to learn, if he could, why Christians found it so easy to be cruel. He concluded that at least part of the trouble was slipshod storytelling in the New Testament. He supposed that the intent of the Gospels was to teach people, among other things, to be merciful, even to the lowest of the low. But the Gospels actually taught this: Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isn't well connected. So it goes. The flaw in the Christ stories, said the visitor from outer space, was that Christ, who didn't look like much, was actually the Son of the Most Powerful Being in the Universe. Readers understood that, so, when they came to the crucifixion, they naturally thought, and Rosewater read out loud again: Oh, boy—they sure picked the wrong guy to lynch that time! And that thought had a brother: ''There are right people to lynch.'' Who? People not well connected. So it goes. The visitor from outer space made a gift to Earth of a new Gospel. In it, Jesus really was a nobody, and a pain in the neck to a lot of people with better connections than he had. He still got to say all the lovely and puzzling things he said in the other Gospels. So the people amused themselves one day by nailing him to a cross and planting the cross in the ground. There couldn't possibly be any repercussions, the lynchers thought. The reader would have to think that, too, since the new Gospel hammered home again and again what a nobody Jesus was. And then, just before the nobody died, the heavens opened up, and there was thunder and lightning. The voice of God came crashing down. He told the people that he was adopting the bum as his son giving him the full powers and privileges of The Son of the Creator of the Universe throughout all eternity. God said this: From this moment on, He will punish horribly anybody who torments a bum who has no connections! ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

1487:She comes, she comesthe burden of the deeps! Beneath her wails the universal sea! With clanking chains and a new god, she sweeps, And with a thousand thunders, unto thee! The ocean-castles and the floating hosts Ne'er on their like looked the wild water!Well May man the monster name "Invincible." O'er shuddering waves she gathers to thy coasts! The horror that she spreads can claim Just title to her haughty name. The trembling Neptune quails Under the silent and majestic forms; The doom of worlds in those dark sails; Near and more near they sweep! and slumber all the storms! Before thee, the array, Blest island, empress of the sea! The sea-born squadrons threaten thee, And thy great heart, Britannia! Woe to thy people, of their freedom proud She rests, a thunder heavy in its cloud! Who, to thy hand the orb and sceptre gave, That thou should'st be the sovereign of the nations? To tyrant kings thou wert thyself the slave, Till freedom dug from law its deep foundations; The mighty Chart the citizens made kings, And kings to citizens sublimely bowed! And thou thyself, upon thy realm of water, Hast thou not rendered millions up to slaughter, When thy ships brought upon their sailing wings The sceptreand the shroud? What should'st thou thank?Blush, earth, to hear and feel What should'st thou thank?Thy genius and thy steel! Behold the hidden and the giant fires! Behold thy glory trembling to its fall! Thy coming doom the round earth shall appal, And all the hearts of freemen beat for thee, And all free souls their fate in thine foresee Theirs is thy glory's fall! One look below the Almighty gave, Where streamed the lion-flags of thy proud foe; And near and wider yawned the horrent grave. "And who," saith He, "shall lay mine England low The stem that blooms with hero-deeds The rock when man from wrong a refuge needs The stronghold where the tyrant comes in vain? Who shall bid England vanish from the main? Ne'er be this only Eden freedom knew, Man's stout defence from power, to fate consigned." God the Almighty blew, And the Armada went to every wind! ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Invincible Armada ,

1488:Jill had, as you might say, quite fall in love with the Unicorn. She thought- and she wasn't far wrong- that he was the shiningest, delicatest, most graceful animal she had ever met; and he was so gentle and soft of speech that, if you hadn't known, you would hardly have believed how fierce and terrible he could be in battle. "Oh, this is nice!" said Jill. "Just walking along like this. I wish there could be more of this sort of adventure. It's a pity there's always so much happening in Narnia." But the Unicorn explained to her that she was quite mistaken. He said that the Sons and Daughters of Adam and Eve were brought out of their own strange world into Narnia only at times when Narnia was stirred and upset, but she mustn't think it was always like that. In between their visits there were hundreds and thousands of years when peaceful King followed peaceful King till you could hardly remember their names or count their numbers, and there was really hardly anything to put into the History Books. And he went on to talk of old Queens and heroes whom she had never heard of. He spoke of Swanwhite the Queen who had lived before the days of the White Witch and the Great Winter, who was so beautiful that when she looked into any forest pool the reflection of her face shone out of the water like a star by night for a year and a day afterwards. He spoke of Moonwood the Hare who had such ears that he could sit by Caldron Pool under the thunder of the great waterfall and hear what men spoke in whispers at Cair Paravel. He told how King Gale, who was ninth in descent from Frank the first of all Kings, had sailed far away into the Eastern seas and delivered the Lone Islanders from a dragon and how, in return, they had given him the Lone Islands to be part of the royal lands of Narnia for ever. He talked of whole centuries in which all Narnia was so happy that notable dances and feasts, or at most tournaments, were the only things that could be remembered, and every day and week had been better than the last. And as he went on, the picture of all those happy years, all the thousands of them, piled up in Jill's mind till it was rather like looking down from a high hill on to a rich, lovely plain full of woods and waters and cornfields, which spread away and away till it got thin and misty from distance. ~ C S Lewis,

1489:When inanimate things ceased to commune with me like natural men, other dreams came to live with me. Animals took on lives and characteristics which nobody knew anything about except myself. Little things that people did or said grew into fantastic stories. There was a man who turned into an alligator for my amusement. All he did was live in a one-room house by himself down near Lake Belle. I did the rest myself. He came into the village one evening near dusk and stopped at the store. Somebody teased him about living out there by himself, and said that if he did not hurry up and get married, he was liable to go wild. I saw him tending his little garden all day, and otherwise just being a natural man. But I made an image of him for after dark that was different. In my imagination, his work-a-day hands and feet became the reptilian claws of an alligator. A tough, knotty hide crept over him, and his mouth became a huge snout with prong-toothed, powerful jaws. In the dark of the night, when the alligators began their nightly mysteries behind the cloaking curtain of cypress trees that all but hid Lake Belle, I could see him crawling from his door, turning his ugly head from left to right to see who was looking, then gliding down into the dark waters to become a ’gator among ’gators. He would mingle his bellow with other bull ’gator bellows and be strong and terrible. He was the king of ’gators and the others minded him. When I heard the thunder of bull ’gator voices from the lake on dark nights, I used to whisper to myself, “That’s Mr. Pendir! Just listen at him!” I kept adding detail. For instance, late one afternoon, my mother had taken me for a walk down around Lake Belle. On our way home, the sun had set. It was good and dark when we came to the turning-off place that would take us straight home. At that spot, the trees stood apart, and the surface of the lake was plain. I saw the early moon laying a shiny track across the water. After that, I could picture the full moon laying a flaming red sword of light across the water. It was a road of yellow-red light made for Mr. Pendir to tread. I could see him crossing the lake down this flaming road wrapped in his awful majesty, with thousands on thousands of his subject-’gators moving silently along beside him and behind him in an awesome and mighty convoy. ~ Zora Neale Hurston,

1490:The Night Of The Lion '_And that a reply be received before midnight._' _British Ultimatum_. Their Day was at twelve of the night, When the graves give up their dead. And still, from the City, no light Yellows the clouds overhead. Where the Admiral stands there's a star, But his column is lost in the gloom; For the brazen doors are ajar, And the Lion awakes, and the doom. _He is not of a chosen race. His strength is the strength of the skies, In whose glory all nations have place, In whose downfall Liberty dies. He is mighty, but he is just. He shall live to the end of years. He shall bring the proud to the dust. He shall raise the weak to the spheres._ It is night on the world's great mart, But the brooding hush is awake With the march of a steady heart That calls like the drum of Drake, _Come!_ And a muttering deep As the pulse of the distant guns, Or the thunder before the leap Thro' the rolling thoroughfare runs. And the wounded men go by Like thoughts in the Lion's brain. And the clouds lift on high Like the slow waves of his mane And the narrowing lids conceal The furnaces of his eyes. Their gold is gone out. They reveal Only two search-lights of steel 139 Steadily sweeping the skies. And we hoped he had peace in his lair Where the bones of old tyrannies lay, And the skulls that his cubs have stripped bare, The old skulls they still toss in their play. But the tyrants are risen again, And the last light dies from their path; For the midnight of his mane Lifts to the stars with his wrath. From the East to the West he is crouching. He snuffs at the North-East wind. His breast upon Britain is couching. His haunches quiver on Ind. It is night, black night, where he lies; But a kingdom and a fleet Shall burn in his terrible eyes When he leaps, and the darkness dies With the War-gods under his feet. _Till the day when a little child, Shall lay but a hand on his mane, And his eyes grow golden and mild And he stands in the heavens again; Till the day of the seventh seal, Which the Lion alone shall rend, When the stars from their courses reel, His Freedom shall not end._ ~ Alfred Noyes,

1491:Matins Gray earth, gray mist, gray sky: Through vapors hurrying by, Larger than wont, on high Floats the horned, yellow moon. Chill airs are faintly stirred, And far away is heard, Of some fresh-awakened bird, The querulous, shrill tune. The dark mist hides the face Of the dim land: no trace Of rock or river's place In the thick air is drawn; But dripping grass smells sweet, And rustling branches meet, And sounding water greet The slow, sure, sacred dawn. Past is the long black night, With its keen lightnings white, Thunder and floods: new light The glimmering low east streaks. The dense clouds part: between Their jagged rents are seen Pale reaches blue and green, As the mirk curtain breaks. Above the shadowy world, Still more and more unfurled, The gathered mists upcurled Like phantoms melt and pass. In clear-obscure revealed, Brown wood, gray stream, dark field: Fresh, healthy odors yield Wet furrows, flowers, and grass. The sudden, splendid gleam Of one thin, golden beam Shoots from the feathered rim 127 Of yon hill crowned with woods. Down its embowered side, As living waters slide, So the great morning tide Follows in sunny floods. From bush and hedge and tree Joy, unrestrained and free, Breaks forth in melody, Twitter and chirp and song: Alive the festal air With gauze-winged creatures fair, That flicker everywhere, Dart, poise, and flash along. The shining mists are gone, Slight films of gold swift-blown Before the strong, bright sun Or the deep-colored sky: A world of life and glow Sparkles and basks below, Where the soft meads a-row, Hoary with dew-fall, lie. Does not the morn break thus, Swift, bright, victorious, With new skies cleared for us, Over the soul storm-tost? Her night was long and deep, Strange visions vexed her sleep, Strange sorrows bade her weep: Her faith in dawn was lost. No halt, no rest for her, The immortal wanderer From sphere to higher sphere, Toward the pure source of day. The new light shames her fears, Her faithlessness, her tears, As the new sun appears To light her godlike way. 128 ~ Emma Lazarus,

1492:A Letter Lying in bed this morning, just a year Since our first days, I was trying to assess -Against my natural caution -- by desire And how the fact outdid it, my happiness: And finding the awkwardness of keeping clear Numberless flamingo thoughts and memories, My dear and dearest husband, in this kind Of rambling letter, I'll disburse my mind. Technical problems have always given me trouble: A child stiff at the fiddle, my ear had praise And my intention only; so, as was natural, Coming to verse, I hid my lack of ease By writing only as I thought myself able, Escaped the crash of the bold by salt originalities. This is one reason for writing far from one's heart; A better is, that one fears it may be hurt. By an inadequate style one fears to cheapen Glory, and that it may be blurred if seen Through the eye's used centre, not the new margin. It is the hardest thing with love to burn And write it down, for what was the real passion Left to its own words will seem trivial and thin. We can in making love look face to face: In poetry, crooked, and with no embrace. Tolstoy's hero found in his newborn child Only another aching, vulnerable part; And it is true our first joy hundredfold Increased our dangers, pricking in every street In accidents and wars: yet this is healed Not by reason, but with an endurance of delight Since our marriage, which, once thoroughly known, Is known for good, though in time it were gone. You, hopeful baby with the erring toes, Grew, it seems to me, to a natural pleasure In the elegant strict machine, from the abstruse Science of printing to the rich red and azure It plays on hoardings, rusty industrial noise, All these could add to your inherited treasure: A poise which many wish for, writing the machine Poems of laboured praise, but few attain. And loitered up your childhood to my arms. I would hold you there for ever, and know Certainly now, that though the vacuum looms Quotidian dullness, in these beams don't die They're wrong who say that happiness never comes On earth, that was spread here its crystal sea. And since you, loiterer, did compose this wonder, Be with me still, and may God hold his thunder. ~ Anne Barbara Ridler,

1493:New Rule: You don't have to teach both sides of a debate if one side is a load of crap. President Bush recently suggested that public schools should teach "intelligent design" alongside the theory of evolution, because after all, evolution is "just a theory." Then the president renewed his vow to "drive the terrorists straight over the edge of the earth." Here's what I don't get: President Bush is a brilliant scientist. He's the man who proved you could mix two parts booze with one part cocaine and still fly a jet fighter. And yet he just can't seem to accept that we descended from apes. It seems pathetic to be so insecure about your biological superiority to a group of feces-flinging, rouge-buttocked monkeys that you have to make up fairy tales like "We came from Adam and Eve," and then cover stories for Adam and Eve, like intelligent design! Yeah, leaving the earth in the hands of two naked teenagers, that's a real intelligent design. I'm sorry, folks, but it may very well be that life is just a series of random events, and that there is no master plan--but enough about Iraq. There aren't necessarily two sides to every issue. If there were, the Republicans would have an opposition party. And an opposition party would point out that even though there's a debate in schools and government about this, there is no debate among scientists. Evolution is supported by the entire scientific community. Intelligent design is supported by the guys on line to see The Dukes of Hazzard. And the reason there is no real debate is that intelligent design isn't real science. It's the equivalent of saying that the Thermos keeps hot things hot and cold things cold because it's a god. It's so willfully ignorant you might as well worship the U.S. mail. "It came again! Praise Jesus!" Stupidity isn't a form of knowing things. Thunder is high-pressure air meeting low-pressure air--it's not God bowling. "Babies come from storks" is not a competing school of throught in medical school. We shouldn't teach both. The media shouldn't equate both. If Thomas Jefferson knew we were blurring the line this much between Church and State, he would turn over in his slave. As for me, I believe in evolution and intelligent design. I think God designed us in his image, but I also think God is a monkey. ~ Bill Maher,

1494:The Nympholept There was a boy -- not above childish fears -With steps that faltered now and straining ears, Timid, irresolute, yet dauntless still, Who one bright dawn, when each remotest hill Stood sharp and clear in Heaven's unclouded blue And all Earth shimmered with fresh-beaded dew, Risen in the first beams of the gladdening sun, Walked up into the mountains. One by one Each towering trunk beneath his sturdy stride Fell back, and ever wider and more wide The boundless prospect opened. Long he strayed, From dawn till the last trace of slanting shade Had vanished from the canyons, and, dismayed At that far length to which his path had led, He paused -- at such a height where overhead The clouds hung close, the air came thin and chill, And all was hushed and calm and very still, Save, from abysmal gorges, where the sound Of tumbling waters rose, and all around The pines, by those keen upper currents blown, Muttered in multitudinous monotone. Here, with the wind in lovely locks laid bare, With arms oft raised in dedicative prayer, Lost in mute rapture and adoring wonder, He stood, till the far noise of noontide thunder, Rolled down upon the muffled harmonies Of wind and waterfall and whispering trees, Made loneliness more lone. Some Panic fear Would seize him then, as they who seemed to hear In Tracian valleys or Thessalian woods The god's hallooing wake the leafy solitudes; I think it was the same: some piercing sense Of Deity's pervasive immanence, The Life that visible Nature doth indwell Grown great and near and all but palpable . . . He might not linger, but with winged strides Like one pursued, fled down the mountain-sides -Down the long ridge that edged the steep ravine, By glade and flowery lawn and upland green, 109 And never paused nor felt assured again But where the grassy foothills opened. Then, While shadows lengthened on the plain below And the sun vanished and the sunset-glow Looked back upon the world with fervid eye Through the barred windows of the western sky, Homeward he fared, while many a look behind Showed the receding ranges dim-outlined, Highland and hollow where his path had lain, Veiled in deep purple of the mountain rain. ~ Alan Seeger,

1495:Collected Poems (1994) Lying in bed this morning, just a year Since our first days, I was trying to assess Against my natural caution - by desire And how the fact outdid it, my happiness: And finding the awkwardness of keeping clear Numberless flamingo thoughts and memories, My dear and dearest husband, in this kind Of rambling letter, I'll disburse my mind. Technical problems have always given me trouble: A child stiff at the fiddle, my ear had praise And my intention only; so, as was natural, Coming to verse, I hid my lack of ease By writing only as I thought myself able, Escaped the crash of the bold by salt originalities. This is one reason for writing far from one's heart; A better is, that one fears it may be hurt. By an inadequate style one fears to cheapen Glory, and that it may be blurred if seen Through the eye's used centre, not the new margin. It is the hardest thing with love to burn And write it down, for what was the real passion Left to its own words will seem trivial and thin. We can in making love look face to face: In poetry, crooked, and with no embrace. Tolstoy's hero found in his newborn child Only another aching, vulnerable part; And it is true our first joy hundredfold Increased our dangers, pricking in every street In accidents and wars: yet this is healed Not by reason, but with an endurance of delight Since our marriage, which, once thoroughly known, Is known for good, though in time it were gone. You, hopeful baby with the erring toes, Grew, it seems to me, to a natural pleasure In the elegant strict machine, from the abstruse Science of printing to the rich red and azure It plays on hoardings, rusty industrial noise, All these could add to your inherited treasure: A poise which many wish for, writing the machine 10 Poems of laboured praise, but few attain. And loitered up your childhood to my arms. I would hold you there for ever, and know Certainly now, that though the vacuum looms Quotidian dullness, in these beams don't die They're wrong who say that happiness never comes On earth, that was spread here its crystal sea. And since you, loiterer, did compose this wonder, Be with me still, and may God hold his thunder. ~ Anne Barbara Ridler,

1496:Fragment Descriptive of the miseries of War; from a Poem called 'The Emigrants,' printed in 1793. TO a wild mountain, whose bare summit hides Its broken eminence in clouds; whose steeps Are dark with woods: where the receding rocks Are worn with torrents of dissolving snow; A wretched woman, pale and breathless, flies, And, gazing round her, listens to the sound Of hostile footsteps:--No! they die away-Nor noise remains, but of the cataract, Or surly breeze of night, that mutters low Among the thickets, where she trembling seeks A temporary shelter--Clasping close To her quick throbbing heart her sleeping child, All she could rescue of the innocent group That yesterday surrounded her--Escaped Almost by miracle!--Fear, frantic Fear, Wing'd her weak feet; yet, half repenting now Her headlong haste, she wishes she had staid To die with those affrighted Fancy paints The lawless soldiers' victims--Hark! again The driving tempest bears the cry of Death; And with deep, sudden thunder, the dread sound Of cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth; While, bursting in the air, the murderous bomb Glares o'er her mansion--Where the splinters fall Like scatter'd comets, its destructive path Is mark'd by wreaths of flame!--Then, overwhelm'd Beneath accumulated horror, sinks The desolate mourner! The feudal chief, whose gothic battlements Frown on the plain beneath, returning home From distant lands, alone, and in disguise, Gains at the fall of night his castle walls, But, at the silent gate no porter sits To wait his lord's admittance!--In the courts All is drear stillness!--Guessing but too well The fatal truth, he shudders as he goes 46 Through the mute hall; where, by the blunted light That the dim moon through painted casement lends, He sees that devastation has been there; Then, while each hideous image to his mind Rises terrific, o'er a bleeding corse Stumbling he falls; another intercepts His staggering feet--All, all who used to With joy to meet him, all his family Lie murder'd in his way!--And the day dawns On a wild raving maniac, whom a fate So sudden and calamitous has robb'd Of reason; and who round his vacant walls Screams unregarded, and reproaches Heaven! ~ Charlotte Smith,

1497:Vive Anarchy With the lifting of the curtain, Distance, dim, but grimly certain, Breaks my vision of a city, populous and great, To my senses, sorrow-sated, Senses sad and satiated, Faintly comes the thunder peal of treasured wrong and hate Broken down, Beaten down, By awakened people and the iron arm of Fate. Pallid forms, by famine shrunken, Helots, harlots, ribald, drunken, Wine and blood-wet, onward thro' the torchlit highways sweep, Through a city disunited, Through a city flame ignited, To the sound of song and trumpet and the cannon's deep Distant boom, Through the gloom, While the fire fiends madly leaps from tower to temple steep. Reinforced from slum and alley, By this wild and weird reveille, Pours the army of the people where their banners drape, In a city barricaded, In a city fusilladed By the deadly rifle and the Gatling and the grape, Crashing down, Smashing down Lanes and alleys filthy, and the foul abode of rape. Tyrants flee and cowards falter-, For a lamp-post and a halter Wait for every tyrant at the corner of the street, In the hour of retribution, In the night of revolution, When on common ground the tyrant and the helot meet, Endless wrongs, Countless wrongs, Burning in the helot's bosom - fanned to fever heat. 18 Let the tyrant beg no pityHis the palace, his the city, His the silken raiment and the costly food and wine; Ours the forms emaciated, Of the women violated, Ours the endless torture in the workshop and the mine; Hunted down, Hounded down To the level of the felon and the concubine. By our women fever-stricken, Where the foetid odours thicken In the homes of hunger, where the children cry for bread; By your soulless apathetic, Scorning of our wrongs pathetic, By the seas of blood and tears by generations shed, Stealing down, Streaming downNow we ask, with smoking rifle, "vengeance on your head." Marching on with footsteps steady, Shotted guns and bayonets ready, Goes the army of the people, in the days to be, Through a city barricaded, Through a city fusilladed, Where the discontented masses struggle to be free, Breaking down, Beating down Wrongs of ages to the song of "Long Live Anarchy." ~ Edwin James Brady,

1498:When Brother Peetree Prayed ’TWAS a sleepy little chapel by a wattled hill erected, Where the storms were always muffled, and an atmosphere of peace Hung about beneath the gum-trees, and the garden was respected By the goats from Billybunga and the washer-woman’s geese. In the week-days it was sacred to my young imagination From its walls there oozed a sentiment of reverence profound; And on Sabbath morns the murmuring of the childish congregation Seemed to spread a benediction in the bush land far around. But when Brother Peetree prayed all the parrots flew dismayed, And the hill shook to its centre, and the trees and fences swayed; And we youngsters heard the rumble of the Day of Judgment there, When the pious superintendent wrestled manfully in prayer. They were horny-handed Methodists, and men of scanty knowledge, Who controlled that ‘little corner of the vine-yard’ by the pound; Their theology was not the kind that’s warranted at college, But their faith was most abundant, and their gospel always sound. Brother Peetree was a miner at the Band of Hope. His leisure He employed in ‘sticking porkers’ for his neighbours, and his skill Was a theme of admiration; but his soul’s sublimest pleasure Was to speak a prayer on Sunday in the chapel ’neath the hill. Froze the marrow in our bones at the sound of hollow groans, And the shrieks of moral anguish, and the awful thunder tones; And we saw the Hell-fire burning, and we smelt it in the air, When dear Brother Peetree struggled with the Lord of Hosts in prayer. Brother Peetree always started with a murmured supplication, Knelt beside a form, serenely, with a meek, submissive face; But he rose by certain stages to a rolling exhortation, And a wild, ecstatic bellowing for sanctity and grace; And he threw his arms to heaven, and the seats went down before him As he fought his way along the aisle, and prayed with might and main, With hysterical beseechings. Then a sudden peace fell o’er him, And he finished, sobbing softly, at his starting-point again. And the elders, to their ears pale with reverential fears, And the sisters and the choir indulged in hot, repentant tears; And the sinners for salvation did with eagerness declare, When beloved Brother Peetree wrestled mightily in prayer. 185 ~ Edward George Dyson,

1499:Autumn I dwell alone - I dwell alone, alone, Whilst full my river flows down to the sea, Gilded with flashing boats That bring no friend to me: O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats, O love-pangs, let me be. Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone And spices bear to sea: Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes, Love-promising, entreating Ah! sweet, but fleeting Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails. Hush! the wind flags and fails Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone; Their songs wake singing echoes in my land They cannot hear me moan. One latest, solitary swallow flies Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tossed, Poor bird, shall it be lost? Dropped down into this uncongenial sea, With no kind eyes To watch it while it dies, Unguessed, uncared for, free: Set free at last, The short pang past, In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast. Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks, Some rent by thunder strokes, Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze; Fair fall my fertile trees, That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease. A spider's web blocks all mine avenue; 90 He catches down and foolish painted flies, That spider wary and wise. Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew Betwixt boughs green with sap, So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap: I will not mar the web, Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb. It shakes - my trees shake - for a wind is roused In cavern where it housed: Each white and quivering sail, Of boats among the water leaves Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale: Each maiden sings again Each languid maiden, whom the calm Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm Miles down my river to the sea They float and wane, Long miles away from me. Perhaps they say: ‘She grieves, Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower.’ Perhaps they say: ‘One hour More, and we dance among the golden sheaves.’ Perhaps they say: ‘One hour More, and we stand, Face to face, hand in hand; Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!’ My trees are not in flower, I have no bower, And gusty creaks my tower, And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

1500:The Peasant Of The Alps FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA. WHERE cliffs arise by winter crown'd, And through dark groves of pine around, Down the deep chasms the snow-fed torrents foam, Within some hollow, shelter'd from the storms, The Peasant of the Alps his cottage forms, And builds his humble, happy home. Unenvied is the rich domain, That far beneath him on the plain Waves its wide harvests and its olive groves; More dear to him his hut with plantain thatch'd, Where long his unambitious heart attach'd, Finds all he wishes, all he loves. There dwells the mistress of his heart, And Love , who teaches every art, Has bid him dress the spot with fondest care; When borrowing from the vale its fertile soil, He climbs the precipice with patient toil, To plant her favourite flowerets there. With native shrubs, a hardy race, There the green myrtle finds a place, And roses there the dewy leaves decline; While from the crags abrupt, and tangled steeps, With bloom and fruit the Alpine berry peeps, And, blushing, mingles with the vine. His garden's simple produce stored, Prepared for him by hands adored, Is all the little luxury he knows. And by the same dear hands are softly spread, The Chamois' velvet spoil that forms the bed, Where in her arms he finds repose. But absent from the calm abode, Dark thunder gathers round his road, Wild raves the wind, the arrowy lightnings flash, Returning quick the murmuring rocks among, His faint heart trembling as he winds along; Alarm'd--he listens to the crash Of rifted ice!--Oh, man of woe! 194 O'er his dear cot--a mass of snow, By the storm sever'd from the cliff above, Has fallen--and buried in its marble breast, All that for him--lost wretch--the world possest, His home, his happiness, his love! Aghast the heart-struck mourner stands, Glazed are his eyes--convulsed his hands, O'erwhelming anguish checks his labouring breath; Crush'd by despair's intolerable weight, Frantic he seeks the mountain's giddiest height, And headlong seeks relief in death. A fate too similar is mine, But I--in lingering pain repine, And still my lost felicity deplore; Cold, cold to me is that dear breast become Where this poor heart had fondly fix'd its home, And love and happiness are mine no more. ~ Charlotte Smith,