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branches ::: fountain, the Fountain

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object:fountain
class:object
word class:noun

see also :::

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now begins generated list of local instances, definitions, quotes, instances in chapters, wordnet info if available and instances among weblinks


OBJECT INSTANCES [0] - TOPICS - AUTHORS - BOOKS - CHAPTERS - CLASSES - SEE ALSO - SIMILAR TITLES

TOPICS
SEE ALSO


AUTH

BOOKS
Faust
General_Principles_of_Kabbalah
Heart_of_Matter
Infinite_Library
Liber_157_-_The_Tao_Teh_King
The_Divine_Milieu
The_Fountainhead
The_Imitation_of_Christ
The_Practice_of_Psycho_therapy
The_Use_and_Abuse_of_History
The_Way_of_Perfection

IN CHAPTERS TITLE
1.17_-_AT_THE_FOUNTAIN
1.sjc_-_The_Fountain
1.ww_-_The_Fountain
3.01_-_The_Mercurial_Fountain

IN CHAPTERS CLASSNAME

IN CHAPTERS TEXT
0_0.01_-_Introduction
00.05_-_A_Vedic_Conception_of_the_Poet
0.00_-_INTRODUCTION
01.02_-_Sri_Aurobindo_-_Ahana_and_Other_Poems
01.02_-_The_Creative_Soul
01.04_-_The_Secret_Knowledge
01.05_-_The_Yoga_of_the_King_-_The_Yoga_of_the_Spirits_Freedom_and_Greatness
0_1962-07-11
0_1963-11-20
0_1967-08-30
03.04_-_The_Other_Aspect_of_European_Culture
03.04_-_The_Vision_and_the_Boon
03.09_-_Art_and_Katharsis
03.11_-_Modernist_Poetry
04.01_-_The_March_of_Civilisation
04.03_-_To_the_Heights_III
05.03_-_Of_Desire_and_Atonement
05.23_-_The_Base_of_Sincerity
07.01_-_The_Joy_of_Union;_the_Ordeal_of_the_Foreknowledge
09.01_-_Towards_the_Black_Void
09.02_-_The_Journey_in_Eternal_Night_and_the_Voice_of_the_Darkness
1.00_-_Main
1.00_-_PROLOGUE_IN_HEAVEN
1.01_-_Archetypes_of_the_Collective_Unconscious
1.01_-_BOOK_THE_FIRST
1.01_-_DOWN_THE_RABBIT-HOLE
1.01f_-_Introduction
1.01_-_Necessity_for_knowledge_of_the_whole_human_being_for_a_genuine_education.
1.01_-_NIGHT
1.01_-_The_Dark_Forest._The_Hill_of_Difficulty._The_Panther,_the_Lion,_and_the_Wolf._Virgil.
1.01_-_To_Watanabe_Sukefusa
1.02_-_BOOK_THE_SECOND
1.02_-_MAPS_OF_MEANING_-_THREE_LEVELS_OF_ANALYSIS
1.02_-_On_the_Knowledge_of_God.
1.02_-_Prayer_of_Parashara_to_Vishnu
1.02_-_The_Divine_Teacher
1.02_-_The_Human_Soul
1.02_-_THE_QUATERNIO_AND_THE_MEDIATING_ROLE_OF_MERCURIUS
1.02_-_The_Stages_of_Initiation
1.037_-_Preventing_the_Fall_in_Yoga
1.03_-_BOOK_THE_THIRD
1.03_-_THE_ORPHAN,_THE_WIDOW,_AND_THE_MOON
1.03_-_The_Tale_of_the_Alchemist_Who_Sold_His_Soul
1.040_-_Re-Educating_the_Mind
1.044_-_Smoke
1.04_-_ALCHEMY_AND_MANICHAEISM
1.04_-_Body,_Soul_and_Spirit
1.04_-_BOOK_THE_FOURTH
1.04_-_On_blessed_and_ever-memorable_obedience
1.04_-_On_Knowledge_of_the_Future_World.
1.04_-_The_Conditions_of_Esoteric_Training
1.04_-_The_Divine_Mother_-_This_Is_She
1.04_-_The_Qabalah__The_Best_Training_for_Memory
1.05_-_AUERBACHS_CELLAR
1.05_-_BOOK_THE_FIFTH
1.05_-_CHARITY
1.05_-_Solitude
1.05_-_The_Ascent_of_the_Sacrifice_-_The_Psychic_Being
1.05_-_THE_HOSTILE_BROTHERS_-_ARCHETYPES_OF_RESPONSE_TO_THE_UNKNOWN
1.05_-_The_Magical_Control_of_the_Weather
1.06_-_BOOK_THE_SIXTH
1.06_-_On_remembrance_of_death.
1.06_-_The_Sign_of_the_Fishes
1.077_-_The_Unleashed
1.07_-_A_MAD_TEA-PARTY
1.07_-_BOOK_THE_SEVENTH
1.07_-_Bridge_across_the_Afterlife
1.07_-_On_mourning_which_causes_joy.
1.07_-_The_Infinity_Of_The_Universe
1.07_-_THE_MASTER_AND_VIJAY_GOSWAMI
1.08_-_The_Depths_of_the_Divine
1.08_-_The_Historical_Significance_of_the_Fish
1.09_-_BOOK_THE_NINTH
1.09_-_Legend_of_Lakshmi
1.09_-_Saraswati_and_Her_Consorts
1.09_-_Talks
1.10_-_BOOK_THE_TENTH
1.10_-_Laughter_Of_The_Gods
1.10_-_The_Secret_of_the_Veda
1.11_-_BOOK_THE_ELEVENTH
1.12_-_BOOK_THE_TWELFTH
1.1.2_-_Commentary
1.12_-_The_Office_and_Limitations_of_the_Reason
1.12_-_The_Sacred_Marriage
1.13_-_BOOK_THE_THIRTEENTH
1.13_-_Gnostic_Symbols_of_the_Self
1.14_-_FOREST_AND_CAVERN
1.15_-_Index
1.15_-_On_incorruptible_purity_and_chastity_to_which_the_corruptible_attain_by_toil_and_sweat.
1.16_-_PRAYER
1.17_-_AT_THE_FOUNTAIN
1.17_-_The_Seven-Headed_Thought,_Swar_and_the_Dashagwas
1.20_-_RULES_FOR_HOUSEHOLDERS_AND_MONKS
1.20_-_The_Hound_of_Heaven
1.21_-_WALPURGIS-NIGHT
1.23_-_Conditions_for_the_Coming_of_a_Spiritual_Age
1.25_-_On_the_destroyer_of_the_passions,_most_sublime_humility,_which_is_rooted_in_spiritual_feeling.
1.25_-_Vanni_Fucci's_Punishment._Agnello_Brunelleschi,_Buoso_degli_Abati,_Puccio_Sciancato,_Cianfa_de'_Donati,_and_Guercio_Cavalcanti.
1.27_-_On_holy_solitude_of_body_and_soul.
1.28_-_Describes_the_nature_of_the_Prayer_of_Recollection_and_sets_down_some_of_the_means_by_which_we_can_make_it_a_habit.
1.30_-_Concerning_the_linking_together_of_the_supreme_trinity_among_the_virtues.
1.31_-_Continues_the_same_subject._Explains_what_is_meant_by_the_Prayer_of_Quiet._Gives_several_counsels_to_those_who_experience_it._This_chapter_is_very_noteworthy.
1.32_-_Expounds_these_words_of_the_Paternoster__Fiat_voluntas_tua_sicut_in_coelo_et_in_terra._Describes_how_much_is_accomplished_by_those_who_repeat_these_words_with_full_resolution_and_how_well
1.3.4.04_-_The_Divine_Superman
1.35_-_The_Tao_2
1.36_-_Human_Representatives_of_Attis
1.42_-_Treats_of_these_last_words_of_the_Paternoster__Sed_libera_nos_a_malo._Amen._But_deliver_us_from_evil._Amen.
1.439
1.43_-_The_Holy_Guardian_Angel_is_not_the_Higher_Self_but_an_Objective_Individual
1.56_-_The_Public_Expulsion_of_Evils
1.63_-_Fear,_a_Bad_Astral_Vision
17.11_-_A_Prayer
18.04_-_Modern_Poems
1.82_-_Epistola_Penultima_-_The_Two_Ways_to_Reality
1914_07_19p
1954-02-03_-_The_senses_and_super-sense_-_Children_can_be_moulded_-_Keeping_things_in_order_-_The_shadow
1.ac_-_The_Disciples
1.ac_-_The_Interpreter
1.ac_-_The_Quest
1.at_-_If_thou_wouldst_hear_the_Nameless_(from_The_Ancient_Sage)
1.bv_-_When_I_see_the_lark_beating
1f.lovecraft_-_At_the_Mountains_of_Madness
1f.lovecraft_-_Celephais
1f.lovecraft_-_Medusas_Coil
1f.lovecraft_-_Pickmans_Model
1f.lovecraft_-_Poetry_and_the_Gods
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Call_of_Cthulhu
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Doom_That_Came_to_Sarnath
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Dream-Quest_of_Unknown_Kadath
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Dreams_in_the_Witch_House
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Loved_Dead
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Moon-Bog
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Mound
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Quest_of_Iranon
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Whisperer_in_Darkness
1f.lovecraft_-_The_White_Ship
1f.lovecraft_-_Through_the_Gates_of_the_Silver_Key
1f.lovecraft_-_Under_the_Pyramids
1.fs_-_Pompeii_And_Herculaneum
1.fs_-_The_German_Art
1.hs_-_Naked_in_the_Bee-House
1.hs_-_The_Great_Secret
1.is_-_Love
1.jk_-_A_Galloway_Song
1.jk_-_A_Song_About_Myself
1.jk_-_A_Thing_Of_Beauty_(Endymion)
1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_I
1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_II
1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_III
1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_IV
1.jk_-_Epistle_To_My_Brother_George
1.jk_-_Hyperion,_A_Vision_-_Attempted_Reconstruction_Of_The_Poem
1.jk_-_Ode._Written_On_The_Blank_Page_Before_Beaumont_And_Fletchers_Tragi-Comedy_The_Fair_Maid_Of_The_In
1.jk_-_On_Receiving_A_Curious_Shell
1.jk_-_Otho_The_Great_-_Act_V
1.jk_-_Sleep_And_Poetry
1.jk_-_Song_Of_Four_Faries
1.jlb_-_Limits
1.jr_-_Ah,_what_was_there_in_that_light-giving_candle_that_it_set_fire_to_the_heart,_and_snatched_the_heart_away?
1.jr_-_A_World_with_No_Boundaries_(Ghazal_363)
1.jr_-_come
1.jr_-_Did_I_Not_Say_To_You
1.jr_-_look_at_love
1.jr_-_Seeking_the_Source
1.jr_-_Two_Kinds_Of_Intelligence
1.jwvg_-_The_Wanderer
1.kbr_-_Poem_15
1.lb_-_Lament_for_Mr_Tai
1.lovecraft_-_Fact_And_Fancy
1.lovecraft_-_Nemesis
1.lovecraft_-_The_Poe-ets_Nightmare
1.ms_-_Clear_Valley
1.pbs_-_Adonais_-_An_elegy_on_the_Death_of_John_Keats
1.pbs_-_A_Fragment_-_To_Music
1.pbs_-_Alastor_-_or,_the_Spirit_of_Solitude
1.pbs_-_Arethusa
1.pbs_-_A_Vision_Of_The_Sea
1.pbs_-_Bigotrys_Victim
1.pbs_-_Chorus_from_Hellas
1.pbs_-_Epipsychidion
1.pbs_-_Epipsychidion_(Excerpt)
1.pbs_-_Fragment_Of_A_Satire_On_Satire
1.pbs_-_Fragments_Of_An_Unfinished_Drama
1.pbs_-_From
1.pbs_-_From_Vergils_Fourth_Georgic
1.pbs_-_Hellas_-_A_Lyrical_Drama
1.pbs_-_Homers_Hymn_To_Venus
1.pbs_-_Julian_and_Maddalo_-_A_Conversation
1.pbs_-_Letter_To_Maria_Gisborne
1.pbs_-_Loves_Philosophy
1.pbs_-_Mont_Blanc_-_Lines_Written_In_The_Vale_of_Chamouni
1.pbs_-_On_The_Dark_Height_of_Jura
1.pbs_-_Orpheus
1.pbs_-_Prince_Athanase
1.pbs_-_Prometheus_Unbound
1.pbs_-_Queen_Mab_-_Part_V.
1.pbs_-_Rosalind_and_Helen_-_a_Modern_Eclogue
1.pbs_-_Scenes_From_The_Faust_Of_Goethe
1.pbs_-_Song._Cold,_Cold_Is_The_Blast_When_December_Is_Howling
1.pbs_-_Song._--_Fierce_Roars_The_Midnight_Storm
1.pbs_-_Song._To_[Harriet]
1.pbs_-_The_Cenci_-_A_Tragedy_In_Five_Acts
1.pbs_-_The_Cyclops
1.pbs_-_The_Irishmans_Song
1.pbs_-_The_Pine_Forest_Of_The_Cascine_Near_Pisa
1.pbs_-_The_Revolt_Of_Islam_-_Canto_I-XII
1.pbs_-_The_Triumph_Of_Life
1.pbs_-_The_Two_Spirits_-_An_Allegory
1.pbs_-_The_Witch_Of_Atlas
1.pbs_-_To_A_Skylark
1.pbs_-_To_Constantia
1.pbs_-_To_Jane_-_The_Invitation
1.pbs_-_With_A_Guitar,_To_Jane
1.poe_-_Al_Aaraaf-_Part_2
1.poe_-_Alone
1.poe_-_The_Forest_Reverie
1.poe_-_To_One_In_Paradise
1.rb_-_Cleon
1.rbk_-_Epithalamium
1.rb_-_Pauline,_A_Fragment_of_a_Question
1.rb_-_Sordello_-_Book_the_Third
1.rb_-_The_Glove
1.rt_-_Brahm,_Viu,_iva
1.rt_-_Broken_Song
1.rt_-_Stray_Birds_61_-_70
1.rwe_-_Art
1.rwe_-_Friendship
1.rwe_-_May-Day
1.rwe_-_Monadnoc
1.rwe_-_Ode_To_Beauty
1.rwe_-_Quatrains
1.rwe_-_The_Enchanter
1.rwe_-_Woodnotes
1.sdi_-_Have_no_doubts_because_of_trouble_nor_be_thou_discomfited
1.shvb_-_Columba_aspexit_-_Sequence_for_Saint_Maximin
1.shvb_-_O_ignis_Spiritus_Paracliti
1.sig_-_Thou_art_One
1.sig_-_Thou_art_the_Supreme_Light
1.sig_-_Thou_Livest
1.sig_-_Who_can_do_as_Thy_deeds
1.sig_-_You_are_wise_(from_From_Kingdoms_Crown)
1.sjc_-_Song_of_the_Soul_That_Delights_in_Knowing_God_by_Faith
1.sjc_-_The_Fountain
1.snk_-_You_are_my_true_self,_O_Lord
1.snt_-_How_are_You_at_once_the_source_of_fire
1.wby_-_A_Dramatic_Poem
1.wby_-_Meditations_In_Time_Of_Civil_War
1.wby_-_The_Gift_Of_Harun_Al-Rashid
1.wby_-_The_Shadowy_Waters_-_The_Shadowy_Waters
1.wby_-_The_Tower
1.wby_-_The_Wanderings_Of_Oisin_-_Book_I
1.whitman_-_Ashes_Of_Soldiers
1.whitman_-_Passage_To_India
1.whitman_-_Song_Of_The_Exposition
1.ww_-_0-_The_White_Doe_Of_Rylstone,_Or,_The_Fate_Of_The_Nortons_-_Dedication
1.ww_-_4-_The_White_Doe_Of_Rylstone,_Or,_The_Fate_Of_The_Nortons
1.ww_-_A_Complaint
1.ww_-_A_Jewish_Family_In_A_Small_Valley_Opposite_St._Goar,_Upon_The_Rhine
1.ww_-_A_Poet's_Epitaph
1.ww_-_Book_Eighth-_Retrospect--Love_Of_Nature_Leading_To_Love_Of_Man
1.ww_-_Book_Eleventh-_France_[concluded]
1.ww_-_Book_Fifth-Books
1.ww_-_Book_First_[Introduction-Childhood_and_School_Time]
1.ww_-_Book_Second_[School-Time_Continued]
1.ww_-_Book_Tenth_{Residence_in_France_continued]
1.ww_-_Book_Twelfth_[Imagination_And_Taste,_How_Impaired_And_Restored_]
1.ww_-_Hart-Leap_Well
1.ww_-_Laodamia
1.ww_-_Ode_on_Intimations_of_Immortality
1.ww_-_Ruth
1.ww_-_Song_Of_The_Wandering_Jew
1.ww_-_The_Excursion-_IV-_Book_Third-_Despondency
1.ww_-_The_Excursion-_V-_Book_Fouth-_Despondency_Corrected
1.ww_-_The_Excursion-_VII-_Book_Sixth-_The_Churchyard_Among_the_Mountains
1.ww_-_The_Fountain
1.ww_-_The_Recluse_-_Book_First
1.ww_-_The_Sparrow's_Nest
1.ww_-_The_Two_April_Mornings
1.ww_-_To--_On_Her_First_Ascent_To_The_Summit_Of_Helvellyn
1.ww_-_Written_In_A_Blank_Leaf_Of_Macpherson's_Ossian
1.ww_-_Written_in_March
2.01_-_Habit_1__Be_Proactive
2.01_-_Mandala_One
2.02_-_Habit_2__Begin_with_the_End_in_Mind
2.02_-_The_Ishavasyopanishad_with_a_commentary_in_English
2.03_-_THE_ENIGMA_OF_BOLOGNA
2.05_-_Apotheosis
2.05_-_On_Poetry
2.05_-_Universal_Love_and_how_it_leads_to_Self-Surrender
2.06_-_ON_THE_RABBLE
2.06_-_WITH_VARIOUS_DEVOTEES
2.07_-_The_Release_from_Subjection_to_the_Body
2.09_-_THE_NIGHT_SONG
2.1.03_-_Man_and_Superman
2.12_-_THE_MASTERS_REMINISCENCES
2.12_-_The_Way_and_the_Bhakta
2.16_-_The_Integral_Knowledge_and_the_Aim_of_Life;_Four_Theories_of_Existence
2.2.03_-_The_Science_of_Consciousness
2.21_-_Towards_the_Supreme_Secret
2.2.4_-_Taittiriya_Upanishad
2.24_-_The_Message_of_the_Gita
2_-_Other_Hymns_to_Agni
30.04_-_Intuition_and_Inspiration_in_Art
30.15_-_The_Language_of_Rabindranath
30.17_-_Rabindranath,_Traveller_of_the_Infinite
3.01_-_Hymn_to_Matter
3.01_-_The_Mercurial_Fountain
3.02_-_King_and_Queen
3.02_-_The_Psychology_of_Rebirth
3.03_-_On_Thought_-_II
3.03_-_SULPHUR
3.03_-_The_Naked_Truth
3.04_-_Immersion_in_the_Bath
3.04_-_LUNA
3.05_-_SAL
3.06_-_Death
3.08_-_Purification
3.09_-_The_Return_of_the_Soul
3.10_-_The_New_Birth
3.1.19_-_Parabrahman
3.18_-_Of_Clairvoyance_and_the_Body_of_Light
3.2.01_-_On_Ideals
3.4.1_-_The_Subconscient_and_the_Integral_Yoga
3.7.1.05_-_The_Significance_of_Rebirth
3.7.1.07_-_Involution_and_Evolution
4.01_-_Proem
4.02_-_Divine_Consolations.
4.02_-_GOLD_AND_SPIRIT
4.04_-_Conclusion
4.04_-_THE_REGENERATION_OF_THE_KING
4.05_-_The_Instruments_of_the_Spirit
4.0_-_The_Path_of_Knowledge
5.01_-_ADAM_AS_THE_ARCANE_SUBSTANCE
5.03_-_The_World_Is_Not_Eternal
5.04_-_Formation_Of_The_World
5.1.01.8_-_The_Book_of_the_Gods
5.1.02_-_Ahana
5.2.01_-_The_Descent_of_Ahana
5.4.01_-_Notes_on_Root-Sounds
5_-_The_Phenomenology_of_the_Spirit_in_Fairytales
6.03_-_Extraordinary_And_Paradoxical_Telluric_Phenomena
6.04_-_The_Plague_Athens
6.0_-_Conscious,_Unconscious,_and_Individuation
7.15_-_The_Family
Aeneid
APPENDIX_I_-_Curriculum_of_A._A.
Averroes_Search
BOOK_I._-_Augustine_censures_the_pagans,_who_attributed_the_calamities_of_the_world,_and_especially_the_sack_of_Rome_by_the_Goths,_to_the_Christian_religion_and_its_prohibition_of_the_worship_of_the_gods
BOOK_III._-_The_external_calamities_of_Rome
BOOK_II._--_PART_I._ANTHROPOGENESIS.
BOOK_II._--_PART_III._ADDENDA._SCIENCE_AND_THE_SECRET_DOCTRINE_CONTRASTED
BOOK_II._--_PART_II._THE_ARCHAIC_SYMBOLISM_OF_THE_WORLD-RELIGIONS
BOOK_I._--_PART_I._COSMIC_EVOLUTION
BOOK_I._--_PART_II._THE_EVOLUTION_OF_SYMBOLISM_IN_ITS_APPROXIMATE_ORDER
Book_of_Genesis
Book_of_Imaginary_Beings_(text)
Book_of_Proverbs
BOOK_VIII._-_Some_account_of_the_Socratic_and_Platonic_philosophy,_and_a_refutation_of_the_doctrine_of_Apuleius_that_the_demons_should_be_worshipped_as_mediators_between_gods_and_men
BOOK_XIII._-_That_death_is_penal,_and_had_its_origin_in_Adam's_sin
BOOK_XIX._-_A_review_of_the_philosophical_opinions_regarding_the_Supreme_Good,_and_a_comparison_of_these_opinions_with_the_Christian_belief_regarding_happiness
BOOK_X._-_Porphyrys_doctrine_of_redemption
BOOK_XVIII._-_A_parallel_history_of_the_earthly_and_heavenly_cities_from_the_time_of_Abraham_to_the_end_of_the_world
BOOK_XVI._-_The_history_of_the_city_of_God_from_Noah_to_the_time_of_the_kings_of_Israel
BOOK_XXII._-_Of_the_eternal_happiness_of_the_saints,_the_resurrection_of_the_body,_and_the_miracles_of_the_early_Church
BOOK_XXI._-_Of_the_eternal_punishment_of_the_wicked_in_hell,_and_of_the_various_objections_urged_against_it
COSA_-_BOOK_I
COSA_-_BOOK_III
COSA_-_BOOK_IV
COSA_-_BOOK_IX
COSA_-_BOOK_VI
COSA_-_BOOK_VIII
COSA_-_BOOK_XII
COSA_-_BOOK_XIII
Ion
IS_-_Chapter_1
Jaap_Sahib_Text_(Guru_Gobind_Singh)
Liber
Liber_111_-_The_Book_of_Wisdom_-_LIBER_ALEPH_VEL_CXI
Liber_46_-_The_Key_of_the_Mysteries
Liber_71_-_The_Voice_of_the_Silence_-_The_Two_Paths_-_The_Seven_Portals
Medea_-_A_Vergillian_Cento
Prayers_and_Meditations_by_Baha_u_llah_text
Sayings_of_Sri_Ramakrishna_(text)
Tablets_of_Baha_u_llah_text
Talks_600-652
Talks_With_Sri_Aurobindo_1
The_Act_of_Creation_text
The_Book_of_Certitude_-_P1
The_Book_of_Joshua
The_Book_of_the_Prophet_Isaiah
The_Coming_Race_Contents
The_Divine_Names_Text_(Dionysis)
The_Dwellings_of_the_Philosophers
The_Epistle_of_James
the_Eternal_Wisdom
The_Hidden_Words_text
The_Pilgrims_Progress
The_Revelation_of_Jesus_Christ_or_the_Apocalypse
The_Second_Epistle_of_Peter
Timaeus

PRIMARY CLASS

object
SIMILAR TITLES
fountain
Liber 93 - The Fountain of Hyacinth
the Fountain
The Fountainhead
the Wish-granting Fountain

DEFINITIONS


TERMS STARTING WITH

fountain ::: 1. The source or origin of anything. 2. A jet or stream of water made by artificial means to spout or rise from an opening or structure, as to afford water for use, to cool the air, or to serve for ornament. fountain"s, fountains.

fountainless ::: a. --> Having no fountain; destitute of springs or sources of water.

fountain ::: n. --> A spring of water issuing from the earth.
An artificially produced jet or stream of water; also, the structure or works in which such a jet or stream rises or flows; a basin built and constantly supplied with pure water for drinking and other useful purposes, or for ornament.
A reservoir or chamber to contain a liquid which can be conducted or drawn off as needed for use; as, the ink fountain in a printing press, etc.



TERMS ANYWHERE

āb-i hayāt ::: water of life, immortality, fountain of life, spiritual discourse, inspired knowledge.

ageless ::: a. --> Without old age limits of duration; as, fountains of ageless youth.

ajutage ::: n. --> A tube through which water is discharged; an efflux tube; as, the ajutage of a fountain.

Alaya(Sanskrit) ::: A compound word: a, "not"; laya, from the verb-root li, "to dissolve"; hence "theindissoluble." The universal soul; the basis or root or fountain of all beings and things -- the universe,gods, monads, atoms, etc. Mystically identical with akasa in the latter's highest elements, and withmulaprakriti in the latter's essence as "root-producer" or "root-nature." (See also Akasa, Buddhi,Mulaprakriti)[NOTE: The Secret Doctrine (1:49) mentions Alaya in the Yogachara system, most probably referring toalaya-vijnana, but adds that with the "Esoteric 'Buddhists' . . . 'Alaya' has a double and even a triplemeaning." -- PUBLISHER]

al kauthar, Farsi/Urdu hauz-u al kausar: ocean of abundance, fountain of wine. (see also Kauthar)

Although our senses tell us nothing of these innumerable other planes, yet the inner and invisible higher spheres are inexpressibly important because they are the causal realms of which our physical universe is but the phenomenal production. But while these higher planes are the fountainhead, ultimately, of all the energies and matters of the whole physical world, yet to an entity inhabiting these inner and invisible worlds, these latter are as substantial and real to that entity as our physical world is to us. Just as we know in our physical world various grades or conditions of energy and matter, from the grossest to the most ethereal, so do the inhabitants of these other worlds know and cognize their own grossest and also most ethereal substances and energies.

Aries (The Ram): The first sign of the zodiac. Its symbol () represents the head and horns of the ram. In astrology, it is a symbol of offensive power—a weapon of the gods, hence an implement of the will. The Babylonians sacrificed rams during the period when the Sun occupied this sign, which occurs annually from March 21 to April 20. Astrologically and astronomically it is the first thirty-degree arc beginning at the point of the Spring Equinox. It is the “leading” quality of the element Fire: positive, diurnal, movable, dry, hot, fiery, choleric and violent. Ruler: Mars. Exaltation: Sun. Detriment: Venus. Fall: Saturn. Symbolic interpretation: Sprouting seed; fire in eruption; a fountain of water; a ram’s horns.

artificial ::: a. --> Made or contrived by art; produced or modified by human skill and labor, in opposition to natural; as, artificial heat or light, gems, salts, minerals, fountains, flowers.
Feigned; fictitious; assumed; affected; not genuine.
Artful; cunning; crafty.
Cultivated; not indigenous; not of spontaneous growth; as, artificial grasses.


As time went on certain deities became more prominent in theological thought and speculation, acquiring celestial attributes as well as earthly ones, such as Ba‘al, Astarte (made equivalent to Isis by Plutarch), and the Tyrian Melqarth (associated with Herakles). Originally each masculine deity had the title Ba‘al (“lord,” equivalent to Babylonian Bel), and the feminine deities had the title of ’Amma (mother), just as the ancient Hebrews spoke of their ’em or ’ammah (fountain, beginning, womb, mother). The gods were called ’elomim or ’elim, from the original Shemetic root ’el. The god of the moon was Sin, the deity of the flame or lightning was Resh Reshuf and Eshmun was the god of vital force or healing (worshiped especially at Sidon) — clearly ’Eshmun is from the Shemitic verbal root ’esh (fire, cosmic fire or vitality) — cosmic vital electricity or fohat. Blavatsky states that the Phoenicians also propitiated the kabeiroi, deities of Samothrace.

As universal space, it is also known as Aditi, in which lies inherent the eternal and continuously active ideation of the universe producing its ever-changing aspects on the planes of matter and objectivity; and from this ideation radiates the First Logos. This is why the Puranas state that akasa has but one attribute, namely sound, for sound is but the translated symbol of logos (speech) in its mystic sense. Akasa as primordial spatial substance is thus the upadhi (vehicle) of divine thought. Further, it is the playground of all the intelligent and semi-intelligent forces in nature, the fountainhead of all terrestrial life, and the abode of the gods.

Besides the Mabinogi, Lady Guest’s Mabinogion contains such stories as “Culhwch and Olwen” (a repository of relics of the lost mythology) and “The Dream of Rhonabwy,” both Arthurian, but Welsh and mythological. Other stories are “Peredur, the Lady of the Fountain,” “Geraint ab Erbin,” in which the Romance, Arthurianism, and Norman influence are beginning to appear. In “Peredur” we see the cauldron, symbol of initiation with the Druids, in process of becoming the Holy Grail: Peredur and Perceval are Pair-(g)edur and Pair-cyfaill — the “servant” and the “friend” of the cauldron.

fountain ::: 1. The source or origin of anything. 2. A jet or stream of water made by artificial means to spout or rise from an opening or structure, as to afford water for use, to cool the air, or to serve for ornament. fountain"s, fountains.

fountainless ::: a. --> Having no fountain; destitute of springs or sources of water.

fountain ::: n. --> A spring of water issuing from the earth.
An artificially produced jet or stream of water; also, the structure or works in which such a jet or stream rises or flows; a basin built and constantly supplied with pure water for drinking and other useful purposes, or for ornament.
A reservoir or chamber to contain a liquid which can be conducted or drawn off as needed for use; as, the ink fountain in a printing press, etc.


Brahman (Sanskrit) Brahman [from bṛh to expand] Sometimes Brahma or Brahm. The one reality, “the impersonal, supreme and uncognizable Principle of the Universe from the essence of which all emanates, and into which all returns, which is incorporeal, immaterial, unborn, eternal, beginningless and endless. It is all-pervading, animating the highest god as well as the smallest mineral atom” (TG 62). It involves both essential consciousness and substance, and is the spiritual background of the kosmos, the Cause of all Causes, what is commonly called the Unmanifest Logos: “Brahma, the Noumenon, never rests, as IT never changes and ever IS, though IT cannot be said to be anywhere” (SD 1:374). As the fundamental cosmic fountain of consciousness and spiritual substance, Brahman is the fundamental or cosmic self which, in the case of an individual being, becomes the kshetrajna, the spiritual sun within the individual. Thus the essential self of every being or entity from cosmos to physical atom is this Brahman itself, which is the cause of the familiar saying “tat tvam asi” (you are that).

brim ::: n. --> The rim, border, or upper edge of a cup, dish, or any hollow vessel used for holding anything.
The edge or margin, as of a fountain, or of the water contained in it; the brink; border.
The rim of a hat. ::: v. i.


canopy ::: n. --> A covering fixed over a bed, dais, or the like, or carried on poles over an exalted personage or a sacred object, etc. chiefly as a mark of honor.
An ornamental projection, over a door, window, niche, etc.
Also, a rooflike covering, supported on pillars over an altar, a statue, a fountain, etc. ::: v. t.


castalian ::: a. --> Of or pertaining to Castalia, a mythical fountain of inspiration on Mt. Parnassus sacred to the Muses.

castellated ::: a. --> Inclosed within a building; as, a fountain or cistern castellated.
Furnished with turrets and battlements, like a castle; built in the style of a castle.


Catoptromancy: An ancient Greek method of divination by observing images reflected in a mirror suspended in a fountain.

Elivagar (Icelandic) [from eli ice + vagar waves] In Norse mythology the “waves of ice” (glaciers) which flow from the fountain Hvergelmir into all the worlds and which provide the life forms for the embodiment of all beings. In the cosmogony of the Eddas, it was from elivagar, the glacier or unmoving waters of nonbeing, that the frost giant Ymir was formed: the void of non-existence in which there was “no soil, no sea, no waves” (cf Voluspa in the elder Edda).

emanate ::: v. i. --> To issue forth from a source; to flow out from more or less constantly; as, fragrance emanates from flowers.
To proceed from, as a source or fountain; to take origin; to arise, to originate. ::: a. --> Issuing forth; emanant.


emanation ::: n. --> The act of flowing or proceeding from a fountain head or origin.
That which issues, flows, or proceeds from any object as a source; efflux; an effluence; as, perfume is an emanation from a flower.


Farsi/Urdu al-khizr ::: legendary saint, prophet and teacher, often said to have been a companion of Moses (see Qur'an 18:65-82), considered to be a fountain of life and of spiritual understanding. Sometimes called the 'green man'because barren lands turned verdant in his presence.

Fons Vitae (Latin) Fount of life; Latin title of the chief work of Ibn Gebirol (Avicebron), the Arab Jewish philosopher of the 11th century, believed by many to be a profound Kabbalist. The Hebrew title is Meqor Hayyim (Fountain of Lives).

fontal ::: a. --> Pertaining to a font, fountain, source, or origin; original; primitive.

font ::: n. --> A complete assortment of printing type of one size, including a due proportion of all the letters in the alphabet, large and small, points, accents, and whatever else is necessary for printing with that variety of types; a fount.
A fountain; a spring; a source.
A basin or stone vessel in which water is contained for baptizing.


fount ::: 1. A source or origin. 2. A spring of water; fountain. Fount, founts.

fountful ::: a. --> Full of fountains.

fount ::: n. --> A font.
A fountain.


FREE MONADS Those who have attained the highest world have freed themselves from all involvation in matter and as free monads (primordial atoms) have come to know themselves as the ultimate selves they have always been. Their auras are like cosmic giant suns and they radiate energy as the fountainhead of all power.

They can, if they so wish, withdraw with a collectivity from out of their cosmos and begin building a new cosmos in the endless chaos of primordial matter. K 1.37.4f


FSO - Fountain-Source of Occultism, by G. de Purucker

girandole ::: n. --> An ornamental branched candlestick.
A flower stand, fountain, or the like, of branching form.
A kind of revolving firework.
A series of chambers in defensive mines.


headspring ::: n. --> Fountain; source.

hermogenian ::: n. --> A disciple of Hermogenes, an heretical teacher who lived in Africa near the close of the second century. He held matter to be the fountain of all evil, and that souls and spirits are formed of corrupt matter.

Higher Self The divine-spiritual essence or essential egoity overshadowing the human being, the atma-buddhi with the efflorescence of manas. The higher self is the god within, the source of all right motive, the fountain of intuition, and the voice of divine harmony seeking to control the individual’s life and to transform or transmute all the voices of personal desire.

hippocrene ::: n. --> A fountain on Mount Helicon in Boeotia, fabled to have burst forth when the ground was struck by the hoof of Pegasus. Also, its waters, which were supposed to impart poetic inspiration.

Ideation The faculty, power, or process of forming ideas. Cosmic ideation denotes an abstraction, being one aspect of cosmic egoity, and also the more concrete reality represented by mahat. Cosmic ideation, focused in a basis or upadhi, results as the abstract consciousness of space working through the monad or vehicle; and the manifestations vary according to the degree of the different upadhis. Cosmic ideation is sometimes called mahabuddhi or mahat, the universal world-soul, the cosmic or spiritual noumenon of matter. As mahat is the primordial essence or principle of cosmic consciousness and intelligence, it is the fountain of the seven prakritis — the seven planes or elements of the universe — and the guiding intelligence of manifested nature on all planes. Going deeper, we have precosmic ideation, which is an aspect of that metaphysical triad which is the root from which proceeds all manifestation.

In the earlier third root-races, the Sons of Wisdom produced by kriyasakti a progeny called the Sons of Ad, Sons of the Fire-mist, or Sons of Will and Yoga. This was not a race, but “at first a wondrous Being, called the ‘Initiator,’ and after him a group of semi-divine and semi-human beings. ‘Set apart’ in Archaic genesis for certain purposes, they are those in whom are said to have incarnated the highest Dhyanis, ‘Munis and Rishis from previous Manvantaras’ — to form the nursery for future human adepts, on this earth and during the present cycle” (SD 1:207). This Wondrous Being, who descended in the early part of the Third Age, is the tree from which have come the great historically known sages and hierophants, and it holds spiritual sway over the initiated adepts. “He is the ‘Initiator,’ called the ‘great sacrifice.’ For, sitting at the threshold of light, he looks into it from within the circle of Darkness, which he will not cross, nor will he quit his post till the last day of this life-cycle. Why does the solitary Watcher remain at his self-chosen post? Why does he sit by the fountain of primeval Wisdom, of which he drinks no longer, as he has naught to learn which he does not know . . .? Because the lonely, sore-footed pilgrims on their way back to their home are never sure to the last moment of not losing their way in this limitless desert of illusion and matter called Earth-Life. Because he would fain show the way to that region of freedom and light, from which he is a voluntary exile himself, to every prisoner who has succeeded in liberating himself from the bonds of flesh and illusion. Because, in short, he has sacrificed himself for the sake of mankind, though but a few Elect may profit by the great sacrifice” (SD 1:208).

Invisible Worlds ::: The ancient wisdom teaches that the universe is not only a living organism, but that physical humanbeings live in intimate connection, in intimate contact, with invisible spheres, with invisible andintangible realms, unknown to man because the physical senses are so imperfectly evolved that weneither see these invisible realms nor feel nor hear nor smell nor taste them, nor cognize them except bythat much more highly evolved and subtle sensorium which men call the mind. These inner realmsinterpenetrate our physical sphere, permeate it, so that in our daily affairs as we go about our duties weactually pass through the dwellings, through the mountains, through the lakes, through the very beings,mayhap, of the entities of and dwelling in these invisible realms. These invisible realms are built ofmatter just as this our physical world is, but of a more ethereal matter than ours is; but we cognize themnot at all with our physical senses. The explanation is that it is all a matter of differing rates of vibrationof substances.The reader must be careful not to confuse this theosophical teaching of inner worlds and spheres withwhat the modern Spiritism of the Occident has to say on the matter. The "Summerland" of the Spiritistsin no wise resembles the actuality which the theosophical philosophy teaches of, the doctrine concerningthe structure and operations of the visible and invisible kosmos. The warning seems necessary lest anunwary reader may imagine that the invisible worlds and spheres of the theosophical teachings areidentic with the Summerland of the Spiritists, for it is not so.Our senses tell us absolutely nothing of the far-flung planes and spheres which belong to the ranges andfunctionings of the invisible substances and energies of the universe; yet those inner and invisible planesand spheres are actually inexpressibly more important than what our physical senses tell us of thephysical world, because these invisible planes are the causal realms, of which our physical world oruniverse, however far extended in space, is but the effectual or phenomenal or resultant production.But while these inner and invisible worlds or planes or spheres are the fountainhead, ultimately, of all theenergies and matters of the whole physical world, yet to an entity inhabiting these inner and invisibleworlds or planes, these latter are as substantial and "real" -- using the popular word -- to that entity as ourgross physical world is to us. Just as we know in our physical world various grades or conditions ofenergy and matter, from the physically grossest to the most ethereal, precisely after the same general plando the inhabitants of these invisible and inner and to us superior worlds know and cognize their owngrossest and also most ethereal substances and energies.Man as well as all the other entities of the universe is inseparably connected with these worlds invisible.

Karanatman (Sanskrit) Kāraṇātman [from kāraṇa cause + ātman self] The causal self; the divine source of one’s being, from which flow forth in a descending scale in continuously less ethereal grades and qualities the various elements which form the human compound constitution. It is the causal self because from it as the primordial fountain of consciousness and being flow forth all the elements, principles, qualities, characteristics — the svabhava — of any entity undergoing its long evolutionary peregrination in the realms of the manifested universe. It is equivalent to atman, called in Hindu literature Isvara (Lord). The various monads in the human constitution — divine, spiritual, human, animal, and astral-vital — are derivatives from this fundamental or supreme atman in the constitution, its children or offspring. These various monads by their reproductive action actually are the causal principles or instruments of the various and unending series of reimbodiments that any entity during the kosmic manvantara is under karmic necessity of undergoing; and it is, therefore, these various monads in their outer or vehicular aspect which are the respective karanopadhis or karana-sarira.

Kelim (Hebrew) Kēlīm Vessels, utensils; in space the Qabbalists depicted a great source or fountain of life, which becomes the beginning of a number of cosmic vases or vessels — the kelim — which are the ten Sephiroth; through which all the energies, forms, and innumerable manifested objects come into being. This source of lives, the Crown or Kether, corresponds to the productive or generative Brahma, which just before the beginning of manvantaric manifestation was nonmanifest in the bosom of its higher essence, Brahman or parabrahman. When Brahma awakens to new activity and thus becomes what Western religion and philosophy call the Creator, the cosmic demiurge or former, then the various vessels or vases spring into being, and flow forth from Brahma, the Father-Mother. Being termed vessels simply signifies that the cosmic Sephiroth are the holders or containers of all the powers, faculties, forces, attributes, etc., which bring about the building of the manifested universe, enshrining as the Sephiroth do the unfolding of the energies of the Divine in the latter’s activity during manifestation.

Lebensborn ::: (The Fountain of Life).“An SS society founded in 1936.... Its main functions were to adopt suitable children for childless SS families, to succor racially sound pregnant women and their offspring, and in general to promote the racial policy of the SS..” (H Krausnick, M Broszat. Anatomy of the SS State. London: Paladin, 1973).

Logos(Greek) ::: In old Greek philosophy the word logos was used in many ways, of which the Christians oftensadly misunderstood the profoundly mystical meaning. Logos is a word having several applications inthe esoteric philosophy, for there are different kinds or grades of logoi, some of them of divine, some ofthem of a spiritual character; some of them having a cosmic range, and others ranges much morerestricted. In fact, every individual entity, no matter what its evolutionary grade on the ladder of life, hasits own individual logos. The divine-spiritual entity behind the sun is the solar logos of our solar system.Small or great as every solar system may be, each has its own logos, the source or fountainhead of almostinnumerable logoi of less degree in that system. Every man has his own spiritual logos; every atom hasits own logos; every atom likewise has its own paramatman and mulaprakriti, for every entityeverywhere has its own highest. These things and the words which express them are obviously relative.One meaning of the Greek logos is "word" -- a phrase or symbol taken from the ancient Mysteriesmeaning the "lost word," the "lost" logos of man's heart and brain. The logos of our own planetary chain,so far as this fourth round is concerned, is the Wondrous Being or Silent Watcher.The term, therefore, is a relative and not an absolute one, and has many applications.

Mary [sic]. . . . Thou art the fountain of

Medini (Sanskrit) Medinī [from medas fat, marrow] The earth; so called from its legendary creation from the marrow and fat of two demons who sprang from the ear of the sleeping Vishnu. Before they could kill Brahma, Vishnu awoke and killed them. Their bodies, thrown into the sea, produced so much fat and marrow that Narayana used it to form the earth. Here medas, while meaning fat or marrow, also signifies the stored-up richness of life or vitality, a treasury or fountain of vital power.

Mekhes ::: Customs duty. ::: Mekorot ::: Sources of Fountains; Israel's semiprivate water engineering company.

Monad ::: A spiritual entity which to us humans is indivisible; it is a divine-spiritual life-atom, but indivisiblebecause its essential characteristic, as we humans conceive it, is homogeneity; while that of the physicalatom, above which our consciousness soars, is divisible, is a composite heterogeneous particle.Monads are eternal, unitary, individual life-centers, conscious-ness-centers, deathless during any solarmanvantara, therefore ageless, unborn, undying. Consequently, each one such -- and their number isinfinite -- is the center of the All, for the divine or the All is THAT which has its center everywhere, andits circumference or limiting boundary nowhere.Monads are spiritual-substantial entities, self-motivated, self-impelled, self-conscious, in infinitelyvarying degrees, the ultimate elements of the universe. These monads engender other monads as one seedwill produce multitudes of other seeds; so up from each such monad springs a host of living entities inthe course of illimitable time, each such monad being the fountainhead or parent, in which all others areinvolved, and from which they spring.Every monad is a seed, wherein the sum total of powers appertaining to its divine origin are latent, that isto say unmanifested; and evolution consists in the growth and development of all these seeds or childrenmonads, whereby the universal life expresses itself in innumerable beings.As the monad descends into matter, or rather as its ray -- one of other innumerable rays proceeding fromit -- is propelled into matter, it secretes from itself and then excretes on each one of the seven planesthrough which it passes, its various vehicles, all overshadowed by the self, the same self in you and inme, in plants and in animals, in fact in all that is and belongs to that hierarchy. This is the one self, thesupreme self or paramatman of the hierarchy. It illumines and follows each individual monad and all thelatter's hosts of rays -- or children monads. Each such monad is a spiritual seed from the previousmanvantara, which manifests as a monad in this manvantara; and this monad through its rays throws outfrom itself by secretion and then excretion all its vehicles. These vehicles are, first, the spiritual ego, thereflection or copy in miniature of the monad itself, but individualized through the manvantaric evolution,"bearing" or "carrying" as a vehicle the monadic ray. The latter cannot directly contact the lower planes,because it is of the monadic essence itself, the latter a still higher ray of the infinite Boundless composedof infinite multiplicity in unity. (See also Individuality)

Monogenesis [from Greek monos single + genesis origin] The theory that all forms of life were developed from a single cell, or that all humanity is sprung from a single primitive stock or root; opposed to polygenesis. Monogenesis may also mean that any living stock of beings, such as the human, sprang from a single pair formerly living on some one part on the earth’s surface. Modern scientific theories of polygenesis are a far closer approximation to the theosophic view, which states that the earliest or primordial forms of the human stock on earth sprang more or less contemporaneously from seven different roots (imbodied groups of lunar monads) living more or less together in the regions surrounding what is now the north pole, which then enjoyed a tropic or semi-tropic climate. It was from the dispersion of these seven different root-stocks that later sprang the various human races known in legend, story, and history. In a cosmic sense it is possible to trace back all living forms to the original cosmic monad from which, as from a cosmic fountain, flowed forth into later manifestation the infinitely varied phenomena of the solar system. However, even this quasi-mongenetic origin of a solar system was brought about by polygenetic seeds of life cooperating to produce it.

Mulaprakriti(Sanskrit) ::: A compound containing mula, "root," prakriti, "nature," root-matter or root-nature.Corresponding to it as the other or active pole is parabrahman, from which Brahman (neuter), the first orunmanifest Logos, proceeds. Mulaprakriti, therefore, as the kosmic veil of parabrahman, may be calledhomogeneous or undifferentiated primordial substance. It is the fountain or root of akasa. (See alsoPrakriti)

naiad ::: n. --> A water nymph; one of the lower female divinities, fabled to preside over some body of fresh water, as a lake, river, brook, or fountain.
Any species of a tribe (Naiades) of freshwater bivalves, including Unio, Anodonta, and numerous allied genera; a river mussel.
One of a group of butterflies. See Nymph.
Any plant of the order Naiadaceae, such as eelgrass, pondweed, etc.


narcissus ::: n. --> A genus of endogenous bulbous plants with handsome flowers, having a cup-shaped crown within the six-lobed perianth, and comprising the daffodils and jonquils of several kinds.
A beautiful youth fabled to have been enamored of his own image as seen in a fountain, and to have been changed into the flower called Narcissus.


Nephthys (Greek) Nebt-het (Egyptian) Nebt-ḥet. Lady of the house; an Egyptian deity, especially associated with the Underworld. Generally regarded as the daughter of Seb and Nut, sister of Osiris, Isis, and Set. In earliest times she is always Set’s consort, giving birth of Anubis (Anpu). But more often she is mentioned with Isis, as the faithful sister. She was the personification of darkness; while Isis symbolized birth, growth, development, and vigor, Nephthys typified death, immobility, and the fountain of all. As in the case of Mut and Hathor, the darkness spoken of was the darkness of spirit as the womb of cosmic space, and hence the association of her name and attributes with death and the afterlife — death being the reservoir of all that has lived, and therefore the fountain of all that shall live in the future, the reproductions of the former. Isis represented the part of the world that is visible — hence the light or manifested part or day; Nephthys, or Neith, the part which is invisible — hence mystical, holy, and everlasting night, the precursor of day, and dark only because its mysteries in their fullness are utterly inscrutable to human intelligence. Thus one was associated with the things which are in manifestation, the other with those which are to come, or which forever are and produce what is to come.

origin ::: n. --> The first existence or beginning of anything; the birth.
That from which anything primarily proceeds; the fountain; the spring; the cause; the occasion.
The point of attachment or end of a muscle which is fixed during contraction; -- in contradistinction to insertion.


pegasus ::: n. --> A winged horse fabled to have sprung from the body of Medusa when she was slain. He is noted for causing, with a blow of his hoof, Hippocrene, the inspiring fountain of the Muses, to spring from Mount Helicon. On this account he is, in modern times, associated with the Muses, and with ideas of poetic inspiration.
A northen constellation near the vernal equinoctial point. Its three brightest stars, with the brightest star of Andromeda, form the square of Pegasus.


Pegomancy: Divination using the water of a fountain for source of divinatory omens.

pegomancy ::: n. --> Divination by fountains.

perennial ::: a. --> ing or continuing through the year; as, perennial fountains.
Continuing without cessation or intermission; perpetual; unceasing; never failing.
Continuing more than two years; as, a perennial steam, or root, or plant. ::: n.


puit ::: n. --> A well; a small stream; a fountain; a spring.

quote :::In spiritual terms, kauthar refers to the abundance of good, or abundant blessings, that Allah has promised to those who pray sincerely and devote their lives selflessly to the good of humanity. Esoterically, this is the Divine wine. Also, the name of Chapter 108 of the Qur'an. In the hadith, al-kauthar is variously likened, to a river, a lake, or a fountain, while also saying that these attributes are just a portion of the great goodness of al-kauthar. One of the sayings of Muhammad (hadith), as narrated by Sahl bin Sad, says: I heard the Prophet saying, "I am your predecessor at al-kauthar, and whoever will come to it, will drink from it, and whoever will drink from it, will never become thirsty after that."


reservoir ::: n. --> A place where anything is kept in store; especially, a place where water is collected and kept for use when wanted, as to supply a fountain, a canal, or a city by means of aqueducts, or to drive a mill wheel, or the like.
A small intercellular space, often containing resin, essential oil, or some other secreted matter.


Re’sh Hiwwar (Hebrew) Rē’sh Ḥiwwār Reisha’ Hiwwara’ (Aramaic) Rēishā’ Ḥiwwārā’ [from Hebrew rē’sh head, beginning, chief, supremacy + ḥiwwār white, colorless purity, the colorless compound glory emanating forth from the Rootless Root, the Qabbalistic Concealed of the Concealed] Beginning of purity, head of purity, White Head; a Qabbalistic term applied to the first emanation of the Sephirothal Tree, Kether (the Crown). Through this first Sephirah or Head flows the white hid fire (or colorless glory of the spirit) in 370 streams in all directions of the universe. This number means the 360 occult points of consciousness each emanating its own fiery energy, in addition to the ten basic hierarchical roots or fountains, thus forming 370. “But indeed it is not fire, but that splendor which is included in the subtile air” (Zohar, ’Idra’ Rabba’, col. 256). This fire is termed the Living Fire or Spirit of Light (SD 1:338). It is the full aggregate of the entire stream of consciousness-life-substance emanating from the ever Concealed of the Concealed and flowing forth in 360 streams, from ten hierarchical fountains or roots, and thus building up the full hierarchical structure of our universe. See also ANCIENT OF THE ANCIENT; FACE; HEAD OF ALL HEADS

source ::: n. --> The act of rising; a rise; an ascent.
The rising from the ground, or beginning, of a stream of water or the like; a spring; a fountain.
That from which anything comes forth, regarded as its cause or origin; the person from whom anything originates; first cause.


Speech, Splendor, Light, Sun, Fountain, Glory,

springhead ::: n. --> A fountain or source.

springy ::: superl. --> Resembling, having the qualities of, or pertaining to, a spring; elastic; as, springy steel; a springy step.
Abounding with springs or fountains; wet; spongy; as, springy land.


staple ::: n. --> A settled mart; an emporium; a city or town to which merchants brought commodities for sale or exportation in bulk; a place for wholesale traffic.
Hence: Place of supply; source; fountain head.
The principal commodity of traffic in a market; a principal commodity or production of a country or district; as, wheat, maize, and cotton are great staples of the United States.
The principal constituent in anything; chief item.


stream ::: n. --> A current of water or other fluid; a liquid flowing continuously in a line or course, either on the earth, as a river, brook, etc., or from a vessel, reservoir, or fountain; specifically, any course of running water; as, many streams are blended in the Mississippi; gas and steam came from the earth in streams; a stream of molten lead from a furnace; a stream of lava from a volcano.
A beam or ray of light.
Anything issuing or moving with continued succession of


Tass: Physical form of Quintessence, often coalescing around Nodes or in supernatural creatures, taking shapes that seem appropriate to the source in question (toadstools in a forest glade, water in a fountain, blood in a creature’s veins, etc.).

Tetraktys (Greek) The number four or a group of four, a tetrad or quaternary. The Tetraktys of Pythagoras, as an emblem, consisted of a triangle formed by ten dots, of which he says: “In what you conceive as four there are ten; then, a perfect triangle and the tetraktys [four] make seven.” and Proclus says: “the Father of the golden verses [Pythagoras] celebrates the Tetraktys as the fountain of perennial nature” (On the Timaeus 3).

The Demiourgos, however, is the deity in its creative aspect, the Second Logos — not a personal deity, but an abstract term denoting the host of creative powers. Later, the conception was anthropomorphized. It is the elohim of the Bible who make kosmos out of chaos; the universal mind, separated from its fountain-source; the four-faced Brahma; the seven principal dhyani-chohans. In the Qabbalah, Hokhmah (wisdom) becomes united with Binah (intelligence), which latter is Jehovah or the Demiourgos. But the Demiourgos itself is dual in the same sense as are those formative powers for which the name stands: acting on all planes from the highest to the lowest, the contrast between above and below, light and its shadow, is shown; added to which, it includes potencies which are symbolized by human minds as masculine and feminine. There was plenty of scope, then, for confusion as to the meaning and application of the word. See also ARCHITECTS; DHYANI-CHOHANS; LOGOS

The moon is the giver of one form of life, as well as of lower forms of mind, to our earth and its inhabitants; while the sun is the giver of life in general to the planetary system, as well as of the higher forms or aspects of mind. Remembering the extremely occult character of both moon and sun, when they are spoken of as givers this in no sense implies that they give to those who have it not, but rather give in the sense of being transmitters, nurses of, and producers of what already exists in those to whom the gifts are thus given. Thus a father or mother may be said to be the giver of life to the children, although the children themselves are in and from themselves a vital fountain: giving here means transmitting, fostering, producing, but not creating and donating.

Theodice, Theodicy [coined from Greek theos god + dike justice] A vindication of divine justice; a system or method of intellectual theorizing about the nature of so-called divine justice, having in view vindication of the justice and holiness of God, in connection with evil. Ancient philosophers all taught that the heart of things was divine harmony and that whatever evil, distortion, and obliquity might exist in the world is ultimately traceable back to the imperfect intelligence of evolving beings, who by their manifold conflicts of thought and will thus produce disharmony, relative confusion, and hence evil, in the scheme of things. This view was replaced during Christian ages by the attempt of many writers to rescue the reputation of the Christian God, who on the one hand is said to be the creator of everything and who yet is supposed to be the fountain of love, mercy, harmony, and goodness. In view of the evils and suffering in the world, such Christian attempts have been futile, for it is obvious that if God is the creator of all that is, He must have been either directly or indirectly the creator of all the disharmony, wickedness, and misery in the world, as was indeed alleged by many Jewish rabbis, following statements in the Hebrew scriptures. But this thought has been denied by Christians who refuse to accept their God of love and justice as the creator of evil, and thus they had recourse to the Devil, who himself must have been created by their omniscient God.

The original meaning is sublime, for Typhon in its prototypal significance is chaos, the unorganized womb or fountain of production, which calls forth the creative energy by resisting it, and is equally necessary with the former. When humanity falls into matter, then these dark-side potencies of nature acquire for mankind a distinctly evil connotation, and their names can be given to vast destructive forces which the misuse of the human will has engendered.

The three norns are pictured by the fountain of Urd who from that source (the past) waters one of the three roots of the Tree of Life. Of the other two roots one is watered by the spring of mother matter, the other by that from which flow the many rivers of lives: the forms taken by all the kingdoms of nature.

"This integral knowledge is the knowledge of the Divine present in the individual; it is the entire experience of the Lord secret in the heart of man, revealed now as the supreme Self of his existence, the Sun of all his illumined consciousness, the Master and Power of all his works, the divine Fountain of all his soul"s love and delight, the Lover and Beloved of his worship and adoration. It is the knowledge too of the Divine extended in the universe, of the Eternal from whom all proceeds and in whom all lives and has its being, of the Self and Spirit of the cosmos, of Vasudeva who has become all this that is, of the Lord of cosmic existence who reigns over the works of Nature. It is the knowledge of the divine Purusha luminous in his transcendent eternity, the form of whose being escapes from the thought of the mind but not from its silence; it is the entire living experience of him as absolute Self, supreme Brahman, supreme Soul, supreme Godhead: for that seemingly incommunicable Absolute is at the same time and even in that highest status the originating Spirit of the cosmic action and Lord of all these existences.” Essays on the Gita*

“This integral knowledge is the knowledge of the Divine present in the individual; it is the entire experience of the Lord secret in the heart of man, revealed now as the supreme Self of his existence, the Sun of all his illumined consciousness, the Master and Power of all his works, the divine Fountain of all his soul’s love and delight, the Lover and Beloved of his worship and adoration. It is the knowledge too of the Divine extended in the universe, of the Eternal from whom all proceeds and in whom all lives and has its being, of the Self and Spirit of the cosmos, of Vasudeva who has become all this that is, of the Lord of cosmic existence who reigns over the works of Nature. It is the knowledge of the divine Purusha luminous in his transcendent eternity, the form of whose being escapes from the thought of the mind but not from its silence; it is the entire living experience of him as absolute Self, supreme Brahman, supreme Soul, supreme Godhead: for that seemingly incommunicable Absolute is at the same time and even in that highest status the originating Spirit of the cosmic action and Lord of all these existences.” Essays on the Gita

“This is the Logos (the first), or Vajradhara, the Supreme Buddha (also called Dorjechang). As the Lord of all Mysteries he cannot manifest, but sends into the world of manifestation his heart — the ‘diamond heart,’ Vajrasattva (Dorjesempa)” (SD 1:571). Adi-buddha is the individualized monadic focus of adi-buddhi, primordial cosmic wisdom or intelligence, synonymous with mahabuddhi or mahat (universal mind). Otherwise expressed, adi-buddha is the supreme being heading the hierarchy of compassion and our solar universe; the fountain of light running through all subordinate hierarchies and thus the supreme lord and initiator of the wisdom side of our universe.

This profound system of philosophy traces all things back to an original cosmic fountain or identical source, as seeds from the world tree, out of which has grown the theosophical concept of universal brotherhood.

TOPS-10 ::: /tops-ten/ DEC's proprietary OS for the fabled PDP-10 machines, long a favourite of hackers but now effectively extinct. A fountain of hacker folklore. See also BOTS-10 (from bottoms-ten) as a comment on the inappropriateness of describing it as the top of anything.[Jargon File]

TOPS-10 /tops-ten/ DEC's proprietary OS for the fabled {PDP-10} machines, long a favourite of hackers but now effectively extinct. A fountain of hacker folklore. See also {ITS}, {TOPS-20}, {TWENEX}, {VMS}, {operating system}. TOPS-10 was sometimes called BOTS-10 (from "bottoms-ten") as a comment on the inappropriateness of describing it as the top of anything. [{Jargon File}]

tridacna ::: n. --> A genus of very large marine bivalve shells found on the coral reefs of the Indian and Pacific Oceans. One species (T. gigas) often weighs four or five hundred pounds, and is sometimes used for baptismal fonts. Called also paw shell, and fountain shell.

Udumbaragiri. A mountain in Sri Lanka and legendary abode of demons (P. yakkha; S. YAKsA), site of a monastery of forest-dwelling monks noted (according to the MahāvaMsatīkā) for their scholarship and piety; also known as Udumbarapabbata, Dhumarakkha, and Dimbulāgala. By the twelfth century CE, the Udumbaragiri monastery became the standard bearer of orthodoxy and played a central role in the monastic purifications of PARAKRĀMABĀHU I and his successors, Vijayabāhu III and Parakrāmabāhu II. The monastic reforms instituted by these three kings represented a watershed in Sinhalese Buddhist history, insofar as patterns of SAMGHA organization and saMgha-state relations were established that were to remain essentially unchanged from that period onward. These reforms were transmitted in stages to Burma (Myanmar) beginning in the twelfth century. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the Udumbaragiri monastery was again the fountainhead of a major THERAVĀDA revival that was propagated into the Thai kingdoms of AYUTHAYA, SUKHOTHAI, and Chiangmai and the Mon kingdom of PEGU.

Watcher or Silent Watcher, Wondrous Being Generically the dominant self or overlord of any hierarchy. Throughout a human being’s complex nature dwells his own spiritual Wondrous Being, the fountain and fundamental law of his whole nature; there is the Silent Watcher of the Brotherhood of Compassion, who is identical with the Watcher for our globe; the Watcher for our planetary chain; for our solar system, its habitat being the solar chain; for the Milky Way; and for the home-universe. At the other extreme there is a Silent Watcher for every atom, as for every other entity, whether large or small. The Watcher for individual people is the monad, the divine prototype at the upper rung of the ladder of being; an individual dhyani-chohan, the spiritual individuality during the manvantara, and as best it can it works through its “shadows” or incarnations.

waterwork ::: n. --> Painting executed in size or distemper, on canvas or walls, -- formerly, frequently taking the place of tapestry.
An hydraulic apparatus, or a system of works or fixtures, by which a supply of water is furnished for useful or ornamental purposes, including dams, sluices, pumps, aqueducts, distributing pipes, fountains, etc.; -- used chiefly in the plural.


wellhead ::: n. --> A source, spring, or fountain.

wellspring ::: n. --> A fountain; a spring; a source of continual supply.

well ::: v. i. --> An issue of water from the earth; a spring; a fountain.
A pit or hole sunk into the earth to such a depth as to reach a supply of water, generally of a cylindrical form, and often walled with stone or bricks to prevent the earth from caving in.
A shaft made in the earth to obtain oil or brine.
Fig.: A source of supply; fountain; wellspring.
An inclosure in the middle of a vessel&


xindi. (S. cintābhumikā; J. shinji; K. simji 心地). In Chinese, lit. "mind-ground" or "mind as ground"; a common metaphor used in MAHĀYĀNA literature to suggest that mind or thought is the source, or "ground," of all phenomena. The Dasheng bensheng xindi guan jing ("Sutra on the Great-Vehicle Contemplation of the Innate Mind Ground"), for example, metaphorically refers to the minds of the sentient beings of the three realms of existence as a "mind-ground," since all phenomena-whether mundane (LAUKIKA) or supramundane (LOKOTTARA), and including all virtuous and nonvirtuous dharmas, as well as the five rebirth destinies (GATI) and the states of a PRATYEKABUDDHA, BODHISATTVA, or even a buddha-are generated from the mind of sentient beings, just as all grains and fruits are generated from soil. A commentary to the MAHĀVAIROCANĀBHISAMBODHISuTRA (Dari jing shu) says that the mind is also metaphorically referred to as a "ground," since the practice of bodhisattvas relies on the mind, just as activities of ordinary people rely on the ground. In the FANWANG JING ("Brahmā's Net Sutra"), the mind-ground refers to the bodhisattva precepts (PUSA JIE), which help to restrain the activities of body, speech, and mind; the precepts are the mind-ground because the activities of mind, or thought, are the basis for actions performed via body and speech. The buddha Vairocana says in the sutra that he achieved complete, perfect enlightenment (SAMYAKSAMBODHI) only after cultivating the mind-ground over a hundred incalculable eons (ASAMKHYEYAKALPA). The Korean monk WoNHYO (617-686), in his Pommanggyong Posal kyebon sagi ("Personal Exposition on the Bodhisattva Precepts Text of the 'Brahmā's Net Sutra'"), described three different denotations of mind-ground in terms of the abider and the ground on which that abider resides. These are (1) the fifty stages of the bodhisattva path (the ten BODHISATTVABHuMI, plus the forty stages preliminary to the bhumis), which is the ground on which the thought of enlightenment (BODHICITTA) of the bodhisattva abides; (2) the three categories of precepts (sĪLATRAYA), which is the ground on which the enlightened mind abides; and (3) the realm of reality (DHARMADHĀTU), which is the ground on which the practitioner abides. In the CHAN ZONG, the mind that was transmitted by BODHIDHARMA, the putative founder of Chan, is termed the mind-ground, and his teaching of the one (enlightened) mind is called the dharma teaching of the mind-ground (xindi famen). HUANGBO XIYUN (d. 850) says in his CHUANXIN FAYAO that the "dharma teaching of the mind-ground means that all dharmas are constructed depending upon this mind." Finally, GUIFENG ZONGMI in his CHANYUAN CHUCHUANJI TUXU ("Prolegomenon to the Comprehensive References to the Fountainhead of Chan Collection") equates mind-ground with the buddha-nature (FOXING): "the originally enlightened true nature of sentient beings is called both buddha-nature and mind-ground."

Yu evidently refers to the primordial spiritual substance of the universe, which is at once intelligence and spiritual matter, life and consciousness, from which all proceeds as a fountain or source, and into which all will ultimately return when the great cosmic world period or manvantara reaches its end, and the cosmic pralaya begins. Yet this is not the highest in the cosmic hierarchical scale, because over, in, and throughout yu is the super-essential cosmic primordial abstract being, which the Pythagoreans spoke of as the all-embracing cosmic monad.



QUOTES [20 / 20 - 1500 / 1509]


KEYS (10k)

   4 Anonymous
   3 Sri Aurobindo
   2 Saint John Chrysostom
   1 Teresa of Avila
   1 Sunday Adelaja
   1 SRI ANANDAMAYI MA
   1 Sophia Loren
   1 Saint Marguerite Bourgeoys
   1 Saint Ambrose
   1 John Milton
   1 Esdras
   1 Swami Vivekananda
   1 Sri Ramakrishna
   1 Jalaluddin Rumi

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

  157 Ben Fountain
   31 Anonymous
   20 Rick Riordan
   19 Charles Haddon Spurgeon
   15 Jonathan Edwards
   13 William Shakespeare
   13 Percy Bysshe Shelley
   11 Mark Twain
   11 Edgar Allan Poe
   10 Rumi
   10 John Piper
   9 Ray Bradbury
   9 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   9 John Muir
   8 C S Lewis
   8 Charles Dickens
   7 Jalaluddin Rumi
   7 Charles Baudelaire
   6 Swami Vivekananda
   6 John Locke

1:God is the source of love, the clear fountain of love that never runs dry. ~ Sunday Adelaja,
2:He who receives Light from above, from the fountain of light, No other doctrine needs. ~ John Milton,
3:For in them there is a source of intelligence, a fountain of wisdom and a flood of knowledge. ~ Esdras, the Eternal Wisdom
4:To say God is devoid of love and joy is an absurdity, which proves one has never realized the Supreme Being, the fountain of eternal love. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,
5:Before the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be shattered at the fountain, or the wheel be broken at the cistern. ~ Anonymous, The Bible, Ecclesiastes, 12:6,
6:God has set apart India as the eternal fountain-head of holy spirituality, and He will never suffer that fountain to run dry. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Bande Mataram - II, Swaraj,
7:As Moses (that is, the prophet) threw wood into that fountain, so the priest utters over this font the proclamation of the 's cross, and the water is made sweet for the purpose of grace. ~ Saint Ambrose,
8:You can't until this know by listening to fairy tales. You have to do something inside yourself. The smallest fountain inside you is better than a raging river outside. ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,
9:There is a fountain of youth: it is your mind, your talents, the creativity you bring to your life and the lives of people you love. When you learn to tap this source, you will truly have defeated age." ~ Sophia Loren,
10:Go back, go back to the old days when there was strength and vitality. Be strong once more, drink deep of this fountain of yore, and that is the only condition of life in India. ~ Swami Vivekananda,
11:His Mercy is so great that he hinders no one from drinking from the fountain of life. Indeed, he calls us loudly to do so (Jn 7:37). But he is so good that he will not force us to drink of it. ~ Teresa of Avila, The Way of Perfection ch. 20,
12:Meditate on the Lord alone, on Him, the Fountain of Goodness. Pray to Him; depend on Him. Try to give more time to japa and meditation. Surrender your mind at His Feet. Endeavor to sustain japa and meditation without a break. ~ SRI ANANDAMAYI MA,
13:Moses struck the rock and brought forth streams of water; Christ touches his table, strikes the spiritual rock of the new covenant and draws forth the living water of the Spirit. This rock is like a fountain in the midst of Christ's table. ~ Saint John Chrysostom,
14:Since this fountain, this source of life, this table surrounds us with untold blessings and fills us with the gifts of the Spirit, let us approach it with sincerity of heart and purity of conscience to receive grace and mercy in our time of need. ~ Saint John Chrysostom,
15:And high Delight, a spirit infinite,
That is the fountain of this glorious world,
Delight that labours in its opposite,
Faints in the rose and on the rack is curled. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Parabrahman,
16:Each leaned on the occult Inconscient's power,
The fountain of its needed Ignorance,
Archmason of the limits by which it lives. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Yoga of the King, The Yoga of the Spirit's Freedom and Greatness,
17:The only true voyage of discovery, the only fountain of Eternal Youth, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to behold the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to behold the hundred universes that each of them beholds, that each of them is. ~ Marcel Proust,
18:Light came and went and came again, the great plume of the fountain pulsed and winds of April sheeted it across the Square in a rainbow gossamer of spray. The fire department horses drummed on the floors with wooden stomp, most casually, and with dry whiskings of their clean, coarse tails. The street cars ground into the Square from every portion of the compass and halted briefly like wound toys in their familiar quarter-hourly formula. A dray, hauled by a boneyard nag, rattled across the cobbles on the other side before his father's shop. The courthouse bell boomed out its solemn warning of immediate three, and everything was just the same as it had always been. ~ Thomas Wolfe, The Lost Boy,
19:The Quest
A part, immutable, unseen,
Being, before itself had been,
Became. Like dew a triple queen
Shone as the void uncovered:
The silence of deep height was drawn
A veil across the silver dawn
On holy wings that hovered.
The music of three thoughts became
The beauty, that is one white flame,
The justice that surpasses shame,
The victory, the splendour,
The sacred fountain that is whirled
From depths beyond that older world
A new world to engender.
The kingdom is extended. Night
Dwells, and I contemplate the sight
That is not seeing, but the light
That secretly is kindled,
Though oft-time its most holy fire
Lacks oil, whene'er my own Desire
Before desire has dwindled.
I see the thin web binding me
With thirteen cords of unity
Toward the calm centre of the sea.
(O thou supernal mother!)
The triple light my path divides
To twain and fifty sudden sides
Each perfect as each other.
Now backwards, inwards still my mind
Must track the intangible and blind,
And seeking, shall securely find
Hidden in secret places
Fresh feasts for every soul that strives,
New life for many mystic lives,
And strange new forms and faces.
My mind still searches, and attains
By many days and many pains
To That which Is and Was and reigns
Shadowed in four and ten;
And loses self in sacred lands,
And cries and quickens, and understands
Beyond the first Amen.
~ Aleister Crowley,
20:Chapter LXXXII: Epistola Penultima: The Two Ways to Reality
Cara Soror,
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.

How very sensible of you, though I admit somewhat exacting!

You write-Will you tell me exactly why I should devote so much of my valuable time to subjects like Magick and Yoga.

That is all very well. But you ask me to put it in syllogistic form. I have no doubt this can be done, though the task seems somewhat complicated. I think I will leave it to you to construct your series of syllogisms yourself from the arguments of this letter.

In your main question the operative word is "valuable. Why, I ask, in my turn, should you consider your time valuable? It certainly is not valuable unless the universe has a meaning, and what is more, unless you know what that meaning is-at least roughly-it is millions to one that you will find yourself barking up the wrong tree.

First of all let us consider this question of the meaning of the universe. It is its own evidence to design, and that design intelligent design. There is no question of any moral significance-"one man's meat is another man's poison" and so on. But there can be no possible doubt about the existence of some kind of intelligence, and that kind is far superior to anything of which we know as human.

How then are we to explore, and finally to interpret this intelligence?

It seems to me that there are two ways and only two. Imagine for a moment that you are an orphan in charge of a guardian, inconceivably learned from your point of view.

Suppose therefore that you are puzzled by some problem suitable to your childish nature, your obvious and most simple way is to approach your guardian and ask him to enlighten you. It is clearly part of his function as guardian to do his best to help you. Very good, that is the first method, and close parallel with what we understand by the word Magick.

We are bothered by some difficulty about one of the elements-say Fire-it is therefore natural to evoke a Salamander to instruct you on the difficult point. But you must remember that your Holy Guardian Angel is not only far more fully instructed than yourself on every point that you can conceive, but you may go so far as to say that it is definitely his work, or part of his work; remembering always that he inhabits a sphere or plane which is entirely different from anything of which you are normally aware.

To attain to the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel is consequently without doubt by far the simplest way by which you can yourself approach that higher order of being.

That, then, is a clearly intelligible method of procedure. We call it Magick.

It is of course possible to strengthen the link between him and yourself so that in course of time you became capable of moving and, generally speaking, operating on that plane which is his natural habitat.

There is however one other way, and one only, as far as I can see, of reaching this state.

It is at least theoretically possible to exalt the whole of your own consciousness until it becomes as free to move on that exalted plane as it is for him. You should note, by the way, that in this case the postulation of another being is not necessary. There is no way of refuting the solipsism if you feel like that. Personally I cannot accede to its axiom. The evidence for an external universe appears to me perfectly adequate.

Still there is no extra charge for thinking on those lines if you so wish.

I have paid a great deal of attention in the course of my life to the method of exalting the human consciousness in this way; and it is really quite legitimate to identify my teaching with that of the Yogis.

I must however point out that in the course of my instruction I have given continual warnings as to the dangers of this line of research. For one thing there is no means of checking your results in the ordinary scientific sense. It is always perfectly easy to find a subjective explanation of any phenomenon; and when one considers that the greatest of all the dangers in any line of research arise from egocentric vanity, I do not think I have exceeded my duty in anything that I have said to deter students from undertaking so dangerous a course as Yoga.

It is, of course, much safer if you are in a position to pursue in the Indian Jungles, provided that your health will stand the climate and also, I must say, unless you have a really sound teacher on whom you can safely rely. But then, if we once introduce a teacher, why not go to the Fountain-head and press towards the Knowledge and conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel?

In any case your Indian teacher will ultimately direct you to seek guidance from that source, so it seems to me that you have gone to a great deal of extra trouble and incurred a great deal of unnecessary danger by not leaving yourself in the first place in the hands of the Holy Guardian Angel.

In any case there are the two methods which stand as alternatives. I do not know of any third one which can be of any use whatever. Logically, since you have asked me to be logical, there is certainly no third way; there is the external way of Magick, and the internal way of Yoga: there you have your alternatives, and there they cease.

Love is the law, love under will.

Fraternally,

666 ~ Aleister Crowley, Magick Without Tears,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:He is a perpetual fountain of good sense. ~ john-dryden, @wisdomtrove
2:The cistern contains: The fountain overflows. ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove
3:The fountain of contentment must spring up in the mind. ~ samuel-johnson, @wisdomtrove
4:Greece appears to be the fountain of knowledge; Rome of elegance. ~ samuel-johnson, @wisdomtrove
5:May God keep fresh the fountain of our laughter and our tears! ~ aiden-wilson-tozer, @wisdomtrove
6:Possibility-thinking is the long sought-after fountain of youth. ~ robert-h-schuller, @wisdomtrove
7:The pitcher goes so often to the fountain that if gets broken. ~ miguel-de-cervantes, @wisdomtrove
8:Faith is the fountain, the foundation and the fosterer of obedience. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove
9:College is like a fountain of knowledge - and the students are there to drink ~ chuck-palahniuk, @wisdomtrove
10:That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. ~ henry-wadsworth-longfellow, @wisdomtrove
11:From such a gentle thing, from such a fountain of all delight, my every pain is born. ~ michelangelo, @wisdomtrove
12:Paris is the fountain-head of European civilisation, as Gomukhi is of the Ganga. ~ swami-vivekananda, @wisdomtrove
13:What is the Divine Spirit? Is the Holy Ghost any other than an Intellectual fountain? ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove
14:Slang is a foul pool at which every dunce fills his bucket, and then sets up as a fountain. ~ ambrose-bierce, @wisdomtrove
15:We shall quench our thirst, for we shall drink deep at the bubbling fountain of Wisdom. ~ jiddu-krishnamurti, @wisdomtrove
16:If Christ were only a cistern we might soon exhaust his fullness but who can drain a fountain? ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove
17:A kind heart is a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity freshen into smiles. ~ washington-irving, @wisdomtrove
18:Look within. Within is the fountain of good, and it will ever bubble up, if thou wilt ever dig.  ~ marcus-aurelius, @wisdomtrove
19:Fancy restrained may be compared to a fountain, which plays highest by diminishing the aperture. ~ oliver-goldsmith, @wisdomtrove
20:The bible is a remarkable fountain: the more one draws and drinks of it, the more it stimulates thirst. ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove
21:Rocks and waters are words of God, and so are men. We all flow from one fountain Soul. All are expressions of one Love. ~ john-muir, @wisdomtrove
22:Quoting Scripture leads you to the fountain, but only if you plunge in and come up wet will I know that you are a Christian. ~ aiden-wilson-tozer, @wisdomtrove
23:Every uncorrected error and unrepented sin is, in its own right, a fountain of fresh error and fresh sin flowing on to the end of time. ~ c-s-lewis, @wisdomtrove
24:A beneficent person is like a fountain watering the earth, and spreading fertility; it is, therefore, more delightful to give than to receive. ~ epicurus, @wisdomtrove
25:For if joyful is the fountain that rises in the sun, its springs are in the wells of sorrow unfathomable at the foundations of the Earth. ~ j-r-r-tolkien, @wisdomtrove
26:In a nutshell, the fountain of happiness can be found in how you behave, what you think, and what goals you set every day of your life. ~ sonja-lyubomirsky, @wisdomtrove
27:Fountain of Love my source is in thee - Loving thy will my spirit is free - Beautiful day when all of us see - The hope of the world is Love! ~ peace-pilgrim, @wisdomtrove
28:God is the universal substance in existing things. He comprises all things. He is the fountain of all being. In Him exists everything that is. ~ giordano-bruno, @wisdomtrove
29:In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove
30:The conscious mind may be compared to a fountain playing in the sun and falling back into the great subterranean pool of subconscious from which it rises. ~ sigmund-freud, @wisdomtrove
31:It is one of the worst effects of prosperity to make a man a vortex instead of a fountain; so that, instead of throwing out, he learns only to draw in. ~ henry-ward-beecher, @wisdomtrove
32:The cry for love and communion and for recognition that rises from the hearts of people in need reveals the fountain of love in us and our capacity to give life. ~ jean-vanier, @wisdomtrove
33:I cannot conceive a rank more honorable, than that which flows from the uncorrupted choice of a brave and free people, the purest source and original fountain of all power. ~ george-washington, @wisdomtrove
34:The true unconscious is the well-head, the fountain of real motivity. The sex of which Adam and Eve became conscious derived fromthe very God who bade them be not conscious of it. ~ d-h-lawrence, @wisdomtrove
35:How easy is it for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him, and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity to freshen into smiles. ~ washington-irving, @wisdomtrove
36:There cannot be heaven without Christ. He is the sum total of bliss; the fountain from which heaven flows, the element of which heaven is composed. Christ is heaven and heaven is Christ. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove
37:My counsel is, that we draw water from the true source and fountain, that is, that we diligently search the Scriptures. He who wholly possesses the text of the Bible, is a consummate divine. ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove
38:If you think success is about so many more things and is so much more arbitrary, then you can be much more open to the idea that you can be Ben Fountain and publish your great book at forty-nine. ~ malcolm-gladwell, @wisdomtrove
39:The fabric of American empire ought to rest on the solid basis of THE CONSENT OF THE PEOPLE. The streams of national power ought to flow from that pure, original fountain of all legitimate authority. ~ alexander-hamilton, @wisdomtrove
40:The obligations of law and equity reach only to mankind; but kindness and beneficence should be extended to the creatures of every species, and these will flow from the breast of a true man, as streams that issue from the living fountain. ~ plutarch, @wisdomtrove
41:Will Supreme, Thy Will prevails. The Fountain of Goodness accomplishes everything when the time is ripe. To aspire to That which is Eternal Truth is right for everyone. Of Thee alone must be the spoken word, All else is but futility and pain. ~ anandamayi-ma, @wisdomtrove
42:Do not go for glass beads leaving the mine of diamonds. This life is a great chance. What, seekest thou the pleasures of the world? He is the fountain of all bliss. See for the highest, aim at that highest, and you shall reach the highest. ~ swami-vivekananda, @wisdomtrove
43:Other sound than the owl's voice there was none, save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove
44:Nothing can produce so great a serenity of life as a mind free from guilt and kept untainted, not only from actions, but purposes that are wicked. By this means the soul will be not only unpolluted but also undisturbed. The fountain will run clear and unsullied. ~ plutarch, @wisdomtrove
45:Don't you need a fountain of love that won't run dry? You'll find one on a stone-cropped hill outside Jerusalem's walls where Jesus hangs, cross-nailed and thorn-crowned. When you feel unloved, ascend this mount. Meditate long and hard on heaven's love for you. ~ max-lucado, @wisdomtrove
46:Zen, in its essence is the art of seeing into the nature of one's own being, and it points the way from bondage to freedom. By making us drink right from the fountain of life it liberates us from all the yokes under which we finite beings are usually suffering in this world. ~ d-t-suzuki, @wisdomtrove
47:Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. ~ henry-wadsworth-longfellow, @wisdomtrove
48:To feel the anguish of waiting for the next moment and of taking part in the complex current (of affairs) not knowing that we are headed toward ourselves, through millions of stone beings - of bird beings - of star beings - of microbe beings - of fountain beings toward ourselves. ~ frida-kahlo, @wisdomtrove
49:In that moment Ged understood the singing of the bird, and the language of the water falling in the basin of the fountain, and the shape of the clouds, and the beginning and end of the wind that stirred the leaves; it seemed to him that he himself was a word spoken by the sunlight. ~ ursula-k-le-guin, @wisdomtrove
50:When the heart is full of joy, it always allows its joy to escape. It is like the fountain in the marketplace; whenever it is full it runs away in streams, and so soon as it ceases to overflow, you may be quite sure that it has ceased to be full. The only full heart is the overflowing heart. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove
51:The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule, time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all things ran their course. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove
52:One who has drunk at the fountain of spiritual happiness says good-by of his own accord to the satisfactions that come from a higher professional status ... What is the greatest sign of success for a teacher thus transformed? It is to be able to say, "The children are now working as if I did not exist. ~ maria-montessori, @wisdomtrove
53:If you accurately distinguish the intelligible objects you will call the beautiful the receptacle of ideas; but the good itself, which is superior, the fountain and principle of the beautiful; or, you may place the first beautiful and the good in the same principle, independent of the beauty which there subsists. ~ plotinus, @wisdomtrove
54:In the end, what would you gain from everlasting remembrance? Absolutely nothing. So, what is left worth living for? This alone: justice in thought, goodness in action, speech that cannot deceive, and a disposition glad of whatever comes, welcoming it as necessary, as familiar, as flowing from the same source and fountain as yourself. ~ marcus-aurelius, @wisdomtrove
55:The rich, sweet smell of the hayricks rose to his chamber window; the hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air around; the deep-green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened on every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air: and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop were a fountain of inspiration to them. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove
56:Pippin glanced in some wonder at the face now close beside his own, for the sound of that laugh had been gay and merry. Yet in the wizard's face he saw at first only lines of care and sorrow; though as he looked more intently he perceived that under all there was a great joy: a fountain of mirth enough to set a kingdom laughing, were it to gush forth. ~ j-r-r-tolkien, @wisdomtrove
57:It is the property of things seen for the first time, or for the first time after long, like the flowers in spring, to reawaken in us the sharp edge of sense and that impression of mystic strangeness which otherwise passes out of life with the coming of years; but the sight of a loved face is what renews a man's character from the fountain upwards. ~ robert-louis-stevenson, @wisdomtrove
58:Man's maker was made man that He, Ruler of the stars, might nurse at His mother's breast; that the Bread might hunger, the Fountain thirst, the Light sleep, the Way be tired on its journey; that Truth might be accused of false witnesses, the Teacher be beaten with whips, the Foundation be suspended on wood; that Strength might grow weak; that the Healer might be wounded; that Life might die. ~ saint-augustine, @wisdomtrove
59:There is in all visible things an invisible fecundity, a dimmed light, a meek namelessness, a hidden wholeness. This mysterious unity and integrity is wisdom, the mother of us all, "natura naturans." There is in all things an inexhaustible sweetness and purity, a silence that is a fountain of action and joy. It rises up in wordless gentleness, and flows out to me from the unseen roots of all created being. ~ thomas-merton, @wisdomtrove
60:There is in all visible things an invisible fecundity, a dimmed light, a meek namelessness, a hidden wholeness. This mysterious unity and integrity is wisdom, the mother of us all, "natura naturans."  There is in all things an inexhaustible sweetness and purity, a silence that is a fountain of action and joy. It rises up in wordless gentleness, and flows out to me from the unseen roots of all created being. ~ thomas-merton, @wisdomtrove
61:I was supremely happy, for I had seen. Nothing could ever be the same. I have drunk at the clear and pure waters and my thirst was appeased. ... I have seen the Light. I have touched compassion which heals all sorrow and suffering; it is not for myself, but for the world. ... Love in all its glory has intoxicated my heart; my heart can never be closed. I have drunk at the fountain of Joy and eternal Beauty. I am God-intoxicated. ~ jiddu-krishnamurti, @wisdomtrove
62:But is it such a bad thing to live like this for just a little while? Just for a few months of one's life, is it so awful to travel through time with no greater ambition than to find the next lovely meal? Or to learn how to speak a language for no higher purpose than that it pleases your ear to hear it? Or to nap in a garden, in a patch of sunlight, in the middle of the day, right next to your favourite fountain? And then to do it again the next day? ~ elizabeth-gilbert, @wisdomtrove
63:Love is the river of life in this world. Think not that ye know it who stand at the little tinkling rill, the first small fountain. Not until you have gone through the rocky gorges, and not lost the stream; not until you nave gone through the meadow, and the stream has widened and deepened until fleets could ride on its bosom; not until beyond the meadow you have come to the unfathomable ocean, and poured your treasures into its depths&
64:It is unnatural that a pure stream should flow from a foul fountain its vices are but a continuation of the vices of its origin. A man of moral honor and good political principles, cannot submit to the mean drudgery and disgraceful arts, by which such elections are carried. To be a successful candidate, he must be destitute of the qualities that constitute a just legislator: and being thus disciplined to corruption it is not to be expected that the representative should be better than the man. ~ thomas-paine, @wisdomtrove
65:GOOD MORNING," said the little prince. "Good Morning," said the salesclerk. This was a salesclerk who sold pills invented to quench thirst. Swallow one a week and you no longer feel any need to drink. "Why do you sell these pills?" "They save so much time," the salesclerk said. "Experts have calculated that you can save fifty-three minutes a week." "And what do you do with those fifty-three minutes?" "Whatever you like." "If I had fifty-three minutes to spend as I liked," the little prince said to himself, "I'd walk very slowly toward a water fountain. ~ antoine-de-saint-exupery, @wisdomtrove
66:Friend of fatherless! Fountain of happiness! Lord of the swill-bucket! Oh, how my soul is on Fire when I gaze at thy Calm and commanding eye. Like the sun in the sky, Comrade Napoleon! Thou are the giver of All thy creatures love, Full belly twice a day, clean straw to roll upon; Every beast great or small, Sleeps at peace in his stall, Thou watchest over all, Comrade Napoleon! Had I a sucking-pig, Ere he had grown as big Even as a pint bottle or a a rolling-pin He should have learned to be Faithful and true to thee, Yes, his first squeak should be Comrade Napoleon! ~ george-orwell, @wisdomtrove
67:And you, Ringbearer' she said, turning to Frodo. &
68:Now I behold as in a mirror, in an icon, in a riddle, life eternal, for that is naught other than that blessed regard wherewith Thou never ceasest most lovingly to behold me, yea, even the secret places of my soul. With Thee, to behold is to give life; 'tis unceasingly to impart sweetest love of Thee; 'tis to inflame me to love of Thee by love's imparting, and to feed me by inflaming, and by feeding to kindle my yearning, and by kindling to make me drink of gladness, and by drinking to infuse in me a fountain of life, and by infusing to make it increase and endure. &
69:The sensitive eye can never be able to survey, the orb of the sun, unless strongly endued with solar fire, and participating largely of the vivid ray. Everyone therefore must become divine, and of godlike beauty, before he can gaze upon a god and the beautiful itself. Thus proceeding in the right way of beauty he will first ascend into the region of intellect, contemplating every fair species, the beauty of which he will perceive to be no other than ideas themselves; for all things are beautiful by the supervening irradiations of these, because they are the offspring and essence of intellect. But that which is superior to these is no other than the fountain of good, everywhere widely diffusing around the streams of beauty, and hence in discourse called the beautiful itself because beauty is its immediate offspring. But if you accurately distinguish the intelligible objects you will call the beautiful the receptacle of ideas; but the good itself, which is superior, the fountain and principle of the beautiful; or, you may place the first beautiful and the good in the same principle, independent of the beauty which there subsists. ~ plotinus, @wisdomtrove
70:It is by participation of species that we call every sensible object beautiful. Thus, since everything void of form is by nature fitted for its reception, as far as it is destitute of reason and form it is base and separate from the divine reason, the great fountain of forms; and whatever is entirely remote from this immortal source is perfectly base and deformed. And such is matter, which by its nature is ever averse from the supervening irradiations of form. Whenever, therefore, form accedes, it conciliates in amicable unity the parts which are about to compose a whole; for being itself one it is not wonderful that the subject of its power should tend to unity, as far as the nature of a compound will admit. Hence beauty is established in multitude when the many is reduced into one, and in this case it communicates itself both to the parts and to the whole. But when a particular one, composed from similar parts, is received it gives itself to the whole, without departing from the sameness and integrity of its nature. Thus at one and the same time it communicates itself to the whole building and its several parts; and at another time confines itself to a single stone, and then the first participation arises from the operations of art, but the second from the formation of nature. And hence body becomes beautiful through the communion supernally proceeding from divinity. ~ plotinus, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:We all flow from one fountain. ~ John Muir,
2:Thought is the fountain of speech. ~ Chrysippus,
3:money shaves off a good ten years. ~ Ben Fountain,
4:A pure fountain gives pure water ~ Cassandra Clare,
5:I'll toss my coins in the fountain, ~ Tracy Chapman,
6:The Fountain of Youth is in your mind. ~ Sophia Loren,
7:The heart is the real fountain of youth. ~ Mark Twain,
8:God is a fountain flowing into itself. ~ Pope Dionysius,
9:He is a perpetual fountain of good sense. ~ John Dryden,
10:I'm a fountain of blood. In the shape of a girl. ~ Bjork,
11:I'm a fountain of blood. In the shape of a girl. ~ Bj rk,
12:I never listen to music when I'm writing. ~ Ben Fountain,
13:New hopes are a fountain of energy. ~ Richard Paul Evans,
14:A film is a petrified fountain of thought. ~ Jean Cocteau,
15:Where's the dam water fountain I'm thirsty? ~ Rick Riordan,
16:Mothers are the fountain of creation ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,
17:My pen is an artery, my heart is a fountain ~ Jay Electronica,
18:The cistern contains: The fountain overflows. ~ William Blake,
19:The cistern contains: the fountain overflows. ~ William Blake,
20:We have enough youth—how about a fountain of smart? ~ Various,
21:have you not had your morning glass of shut up? ~ Ben Fountain,
22:Great sex is the key to the fountain of youth. ~ Tassa Desalada,
23:Helplessness was the one true fountain of youth. ~ Lydia Millet,
24:Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceeds ~ William Cowper,
25:When you drink water, don't forget the fountain. ~ Paulo Coelho,
26:Maybe the light's at the other end of the tunnel. ~ Ben Fountain,
27:Mind of a loving heart is the fountain of knowledge. ~ Toba Beta,
28:The real fountain of youth is to have a dirty mind. ~ Jerry Hall,
29:As water in a fountain flows as one stream, ~ Hazrat Inayat Khan,
30:Joy bubbles on a fountain of doubt."-Alison Croggon ~ Alison Croggon,
31:Late bloomer' is another way of saying 'slow learner. ~ Ben Fountain,
32:The worldly fountain does not breed spiritual depth. ~ Stephen Covey,
33:Mind is blocking the fountain of intelligence like a rock. ~ Rajneesh,
34:We have enough youth—how about a fountain of smart? ♦◊♦◊♦◊♦ ~ Various,
35:America is one big maill with a country attached to it. ~ Ben Fountain,
36:McPreachy’s Kool-Aid fountain of positive thinking. ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,
37:Se una pallottola ti deve colpire, è già stata sparata. ~ Ben Fountain,
38:If a bullet’s going to get you, it’s already been fired. ~ Ben Fountain,
39:From the mouths of our elders comes a fountain of wisdom. ~ Ransom Riggs,
40:The fountain of contentment must spring up in the mind. ~ Samuel Johnson,
41:Nutritional excellence is the only real fountain of youth. ~ Joel Fuhrman,
42:Bodybuilding is the closest we have to the fountain of youth. ~ Lee Labrada,
43:You’ve been lucky so far, right? […] So keep on being lucky. ~ Ben Fountain,
44:An inexhaustible imagination is the fountain of youth. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,
45:From the center of my life, there came a great fountain… ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
46:He who can go to the fountain does not go to the water-jar. ~ Walter Isaacson,
47:The words of the godly are a life-giving fountain” (10:11 NLT). ~ Doug Fields,
48:When you're talking to the media, be a well, not a fountain. ~ Michael Deaver,
49:9For with you is the fountain of life; in your light we see light. ~ Anonymous,
50:Also, please charge my fountain pen and bring it with you. ~ Jonathan L Howard,
51:There is a fountain inside you. Don't walk around with an empty bucket. ~ Rumi,
52:the sound of the fountain wove its way through the arches. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zaf n,
53:It is sort of weird being honored for the worst day of your life. ~ Ben Fountain,
54:From the center of my life, there came a great fountain . . . ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
55:Greece appears to be the fountain of knowledge; Rome of elegance ~ Samuel Johnson,
56:Teachers are no longer the fountain of knowledge; the internet is. ~ Don Tapscott,
57:We all flow from one fountain- Soul. All are expressions of one love. ~ John Muir,
58:Americans are incredibly polite as long as they get what they want. ~ Ben Fountain,
59:Are you a water fountain, Dominic? Because you’re getting me wet. ~ Suzanne Wright,
60:The Fountain of Joy still reminds locals that life in Siena is good. ~ Rick Steves,
61:We each keep an untouched life beneath the one we've been given. ~ Carrie Fountain,
62:America is various. It refuses to be all one thing or all the other. ~ Ben Fountain,
63:Coffee? Hell yes, coffee! Caffeine being one of the essential drugs. ~ Ben Fountain,
64:He who has access to the fountain does not go to the water-pot. ~ Leonardo da Vinci,
65:The fountain is ever flowing to cleanse us from our sins! ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
66:The pitcher goes so often to the fountain that if gets broken. ~ Miguel de Cervantes,
67:The secret to the fountain of youth is to think youthful thoughts. ~ Josephine Baker,
68:The fountain of love is the rose and the lily, the sun and the dove. ~ Heinrich Heine,
69:The true leader must submerge himself in the fountain of the people. ~ Vladimir Lenin,
70:I like to kill my enemies and listen to the lamentations of their women ~ Ben Fountain,
71:No fountain so small but that Heaven may be imaged in its bosom. ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne,
72:Some men rob you with a six-gun -- others rob you with a fountain pen. ~ Woody Guthrie,
73:Some people drink from the fountain of knowledge. Others just gargle. ~ Robert Anthony,
74:Eruptions of talent continue to happen in Haiti, in spite of everything. ~ Ben Fountain,
75:Faith is the fountain, the foundation and the fosterer of obedience. ~ Charles Spurgeon,
76:[Rubinstein was] a fountain from which music spouted, not a recitalist. ~ Donal Henahan,
77:. . . Ted Cruz – a soft, smooth Texan with the skin of an avid indoorsman ~ Ben Fountain,
78:We are not fountains ourselves; but the Word of God is the true fountain. ~ Dwight L Moody,
79:Somewhere along the way America became a giant mall with a country attached. ~ Ben Fountain,
80:Studying French has been like drinking from a mental fountain of youth! ~ William Alexander,
81:The fear of the Lord is a fountain of life, to depart from the snares of death. ~ Anonymous,
82:Every sunny morning is a great fountain; we quaff ‘sweet hope’ from it. ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,
83:Drink from the fountain of youth and cloak yourself in the garments of wisdom. ~ Truth Devour,
84:Prayer is the root, the fountain, the mother of a thousand blessings. ~ Saint John Chrysostom,
85:Some drink from the fountain of knowledge, others just gargle.” -Robert Frost ~ Angela Roquet,
86:Wit is an intermittent fountain; kindness is a perennial spring. ~ Marie von Ebner Eschenbach,
87:Be like the fountain that overflows, not like the cistern that merely contains. ~ Paulo Coelho,
88:(The fear of the LORD is a fountain of life, to depart from the snares of death. ~ John Bunyan,
89:Water from the white fountain didn't taste any better than from the black fountain. ~ B B King,
90:Whatever the purpose of a fountain is, the purpose of wisdom is the same! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,
91:Americans are children who must go somewhere else to grow up, and sometimes die. ~ Ben Fountain,
92:Billy offers small hums of agreement and waits for the momma-logue to wind down. ~ Ben Fountain,
93:College is like a fountain of knowledge - and the students are there to drink ~ Chuck Palahniuk,
94:It’s been hard times in America—how did we get this way? So scared all the time, ~ Ben Fountain,
95:That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
96:The feminine values are the fountain of bliss. Know the masculine, Keep to the feminine. ~ Laozi,
97:What might be merely embarrassing in real life is made obscene and hostile by TV. ~ Ben Fountain,
98:Parents wonder why the streams are bitter, when they themselves poison the fountain. ~ John Locke,
99:The speech of God’s beautiful woman is a fountain of life to those around her. ~ Elizabeth George,
100:To the sick, indeed, nature is sick, but to the well, a fountain of health. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
101:God knows the war sucks, but he sees no great appeal in these tepid peacetime lives. ~ Ben Fountain,
102:Maybe we need a war now and then to get our priorities straight,” a second man says. ~ Ben Fountain,
103:From such a gentle thing, from such a fountain of all delight, my every pain is born. ~ Michelangelo,
104:I’ll drown him in that damn fountain and then I’ll CPR him back and drown him again. ~ Ilona Andrews,
105:Paris is the fountain-head of European civilisation, as Gomukhi is of the Ganga. ~ Swami Vivekananda,
106:Seeing the show is like a visit to the fountain of youth for parents and the children. ~ Cathy Rigby,
107:Halfway to the fountain a familiar dog came bounding over. “Lucy!” he said. “Down! ~ Franklin W Dixon,
108:For in them there is a source of intelligence, a fountain of wisdom and a flood of knowledge. ~ Esdras,
109:let us seek God, and seek Him as a fountain of holiness, as well as a fountain of happiness. ~ Various,
110:Society may not need you, strictly speaking, but some sort of use can usually be found. ~ Ben Fountain,
111:And he who lieth there was childless. I have dried the fountain of gentle race..
-Cain ~ Lord Byron,
112:Fake it till you make it, he reminds himself. This is how he’s survived Army life so far. ~ Ben Fountain,
113:He scattered his aitches as a fountain its sprays in a strong wind. He was very earnest. ~ P G Wodehouse,
114:Parents wonder why the streams are bitter, when they themselves have poisoned the fountain. ~ John Locke,
115:He picked up the fountain pen and clicked the top on and off a few times while he listened. ~ Hugh Laurie,
116:Night has come; now all fountains speak more loudly. And my soul too is a fountain. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
117:My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr'd; And I myself see not the bottom of it. ~ William Shakespeare,
118:When you hear the voice of Rosa Ponselle, you hear a fountain of melody blessed by the Lord. ~ Mary Garden,
119:If the godly give in to the wicked,        it’s like polluting a fountain or muddying a spring. ~ Anonymous,
120:No country that lets its leaders lie like that deserves a single soldier to die for it.” She ~ Ben Fountain,
121:the gentle Kathryn thumps the engagement ring in his face, thumps it as you’d thump a spider ~ Ben Fountain,
122:Would the fountain of your mind were clear again,
that I might water an ass at it! ~ William Shakespeare,
123:Just as heart is a fountain of unspoken words,
the universe is a womb of wonder weird worlds. ~ Toba Beta,
124:She seems to have what I never saw in any woman before—a fountain of friendship towards men—a ~ George Eliot,
125:Slang is a foul pool at which every dunce fills his bucket, and then sets up as a fountain. ~ Ambrose Bierce,
126:We shall quench our thirst, for we shall drink deep at the bubbling fountain of Wisdom. ~ Jiddu Krishnamurti,
127:26 If the godly give in to the wicked,       it’s like polluting a fountain or muddying a spring. ~ Anonymous,
128:A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty. ~ William Shakespeare,
129:None of us can have as many virtues as the fountain-pen, or half its cussedness; but we can try. ~ Mark Twain,
130:...the Revolution had reached that classic mature stage where it existed only for its own sake. ~ Ben Fountain,
131:From such a gentle thing,from such a fountain of all delight,my every pain is born... ~ Michelangelo Buonarroti,
132:You are a fountain of the sun's light. I am a willow shadow on the ground. You make my raggedness silky. ~ Rumi,
133:Dig inside. Inside is the fountain of good, and it will forever flow, if you will forever dig. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
134:I’d love to see the Trevi Fountain,” she said. “There’s a fountain on every block,” Leo grumbled. ~ Rick Riordan,
135:In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers. ~ Lucretius,
136:I only wish to be the fountain of love from which you drink, every drop promising eternal passion. ~ Erich Fromm,
137:Look within. Within is the fountain of good, and it will ever bubble up, if you will ever dig. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
138:The night is given to us to take breath, to pray, to drink deep at the fountain of power. ~ Florence Nightingale,
139:Every teacher is a fountain; but you must know that not every fountain’s water is drinkable! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,
140:If Christ were only a cistern we might soon exhaust his fullness but who can drain a fountain? ~ Charles Spurgeon,
141:Life is fountain of joy; but where the rabble also gather to drink, all wells are poisoned. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
142:Look within. Within is the fountain of good, and it will ever bubble up, if thou wilt ever dig. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
143:A kind heart is a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity freshen into smiles. ~ Washington Irving,
144:Gli americani sono bambini che devono andare da qualche altra parte a crescere, e a volte a morire. ~ Ben Fountain,
145:Fancy restrained may be compared to a fountain, which plays highest by diminishing the aperture. ~ Oliver Goldsmith,
146:Before there was any water there were tides of fire, both our tones flow from the older fountain. ~ Robinson Jeffers,
147:If you could figure out how to live with family then you'd gone a long way toward finding your peace. ~ Ben Fountain,
148:Thought is the fount of action, life, and manifestation; make the fountain pure, and all will be pure. ~ James Allen,
149:When my heart drank water from your fountain it drowned in you, and the torrent snatched me away. - ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,
150:It's going to be a long, lonesome eleven months in Iraq, long and lonesome being the best-case scenario ~ Ben Fountain,
151:Schools are a fountain of knowledge: some students come to drink , some to sip and others just to gargle. ~ Shiv Khera,
152:The heart that once has been bathed in love's pure fountain retains the pulse of youth forever. ~ Walter Savage Landor,
153:There was really nothing pressing for me to do beyond pouring bubble bath in the fountain at City Hall. ~ Debra Dunbar,
154:Thought is the fountain of action, life and manifestation; make the fountain pure, and all will be pure. ~ James Allen,
155:From the heart of this fountain of delights wells up some bitter taste to choke them even amid the flowers. ~ Lucretius,
156:Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water. ~ Carl Sandburg,
157:The bible is a remarkable fountain: the more one draws and drinks of it, the more it stimulates thirst. ~ Martin Luther,
158:From the heart of the fountain of delight rises a jet of bitterness that tortures us among the very flowers. ~ Lucretius,
159:If Christ were only a cistern, we might soon exhaust His fullness—but who can drain a fountain? ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
160:The fountain-head of rebellion, on the contrary, is the principle of
superabundant activity and energy. ~ Albert Camus,
161:for the springs both of good and evil flow from the prince, over a whole nation, as from a lasting fountain. ~ Thomas More,
162:Friendship is the medicine for all misfortune; but ingratitude dries up the fountain of all goodness. ~ Cardinal Richelieu,
163:He found at the foot of a large walnut-tree a fountain of clear and running water. He dismounted, fastened his ~ Anonymous,
164:I realized I was never going to have any peace with myself unless I made an honest stab at trying to write. ~ Ben Fountain,
165:Land is not merely soil, it is a fountain of energy flowing through a circuit of soils, plants and animals. ~ Aldo Leopold,
166:Next thing she knows she’s lying flat on her back and three grizzled Mexicans are standing over her, trying ~ Ben Fountain,
167:By the end of the first decade of writing, I considered myself a confirmed failure in the eyes of the world. ~ Ben Fountain,
168:From the very fountain of enchantment there arises a taste of bitterness to spread anguish amongst the flowers. ~ Lucretius,
169:Mathematics - the unshaken Foundation of Sciences, and the plentiful Fountain of Advantage to human affairs. ~ Isaac Barrow,
170:Thought is the fount of action, life, and manifestation; make the fountain pure, and all will be pure. Change ~ James Allen,
171:...for the springs of both good and evil flow from the prince over a whole nation, as from a lasting fountain. ~ Thomas More,
172:La società può anche non avere bisogno di te, in senso stretto, ma di solito un modo di utilizzarti lo trova. ~ Ben Fountain,
173:Exercise is roughly the only equivalent of a fountain of youth that exists today, and its free to everyone. ~ S Jay Olshansky,
174:He can feel it rising in him, this powerful if not quite choate sense of how to live a strong and decent life. ~ Ben Fountain,
175:I have often found a small stream at its fountain-head, that, when followed up, carried away the camel with his load. ~ Saadi,
176:Let me just say, we call Iraq the abnormal normal, 'cause over there the weirdest stuff is just everyday life. ~ Ben Fountain,
177:Must it ever be thus — that the source of our happiness must also be the fountain of our misery? ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
178:The thing that awakens the deepest fountain of gratitude in a human being is that God has forgiven his sin. ~ Oswald Chambers,
179:Though God is the fountain of grace—yet the saints are the pipes which transmit the living streams to others. ~ Thomas Watson,
180:My countrymen have commissioned a bust of the Republic. It will be placed on the fountain of my native town. ~ Camille Claudel,
181:Red brick exterior, fountain out front, pool and hot tub in back, more bedrooms and bathrooms than we’ll ever use. ~ Anonymous,
182:The Kessler Theater is one such gem, an Art Deco beauty … for a slice of real life, there’s always the Kessler. ~ Ben Fountain,
183:Water is the mother of the vine, the nurse and fountain of fecundity, the adorner and refresher of the world. ~ Charles Mackay,
184:Thought is the fountain of action, life, and manifestation; make the fountain (source) pure, and all will be pure ~ James Allen,
185:Writing for young readers is almost like dipping into a fountain of youth; for hours a day, I am a child again. ~ Iain Lawrence,
186:The stench of the trail of Ego in our History. It is ego - ego, the fountain cry, origin, sole source of war. ~ George Meredith,
187:What youth never understands is that the fountain of youth is not about age. It's about the mind and discipline. ~ Austin Dragon,
188:9For with You is the fountain of life [the fountain of life-giving water]; In Your light we see light. [John 4:10, 14 ~ Anonymous,
189:Are you burdened with this day’s sins? Here is a fountain filled with blood: Use it, saint, use it. Has ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
190:Dal centro della mia vita venne una grande fontana… “From the center of my life, there came a great fountain… ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
191:Don't be scared, Shroom said. Because you're going to be scared. So when you start to get scared, don't be scared. ~ Ben Fountain,
192:From the midst of the very fountain of pleasure, something of bitterness arises to vex us in the flower of enjoyment. ~ Lucretius,
193:It took me 10 years to write a story that pleased me - that I could look at after it was published and not cringe. ~ Ben Fountain,
194:Of all the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable, inasmuch as he has the fountain of reason in him not yet regulated. ~ Plato,
195:God alone is the Fountain of Life. Without Him there could be neither life nor joy, neither abundance nor delights. ~ Randy Alcorn,
196:It's amazing what happens when you stick yourself in a place and let things take their more or less natural course. ~ Ben Fountain,
197:She had kept the oath she had sworn before Myrddin; she had obeyed the Fountain’s will. So why did it hurt so much? ~ Jeff Wheeler,
198:Find the fountain of fuel of life!
When you do, then right next to it...
you'll see the best engine ever existed. ~ Toba Beta,
199:For love is of God. He is the fountain, author, parent, and commander of love; it is the sum of his law and gospel. ~ Matthew Henry,
200:I’m not talking giant like $7.99 all-you-can-eat Alaskan king crab. I’m talking giant like bigger than the fountain. ~ Rick Riordan,
201:This was extraordinary, as Mrs. Fountain was so cheap she washed out her old tinfoil to roll in a ball and use again, ~ Donna Tartt,
202:Hope is a gift. You can't choose to have it. To believe and yet to have no hope is to thirst beside a fountain. ~ Ann Marie MacDonald,
203:It is better to have one fountain that a thousand cisterns, one all-sufficient God than a thousand insufficient ones. ~ Matthew Henry,
204:Boeksplein was the heart of the university—four libraries built around a central courtyard and the Scholar’s Fountain. ~ Leigh Bardugo,
205:For tradition to be alive it has to be allowed to be a fountain of power for things undreamt of, things to come. ~ Jabra Ibrahim Jabra,
206:Like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river, like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and for ever! ~ Walter Scott,
207:Ponce de Leon, who said when he discovered the Fountain of Youth, Where the hell are the paper cups? Never got a dinner! ~ Red Buttons,
208:Now as through this world I ramble, I see lots of funny men, Some rob you with a six gun, And some with a fountain pen. ~ Woody Guthrie,
209:A un certo punto non meglio identificato, l'America è diventata un gigantesco centro commerciale con una nazione accanto. ~ Ben Fountain,
210:Crafting a novel on cotton rag paper with an antique fountain pen is a sensuously rebellious act against modernity. ~ Khang Kijarro Nguyen,
211:The musings are the same I believe the fire to create burns so heavily that I am never far from a guitar or a fountain pen. ~ Shelby Lynne,
212:Indifference and neglect often do much more damage than outright dislike. . . . The fountain we destroyed tonight told a lie. ~ J K Rowling,
213:I think sometimes nothing is better than something. I mean, I’d rather have nothing than let this guy use me like his bitch. ~ Ben Fountain,
214:If I could only get people to rub my belly for good lucky and then throw money in my fountain, it'd be a perfect world. ~ Christopher Meloni,
215:More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. ~ Anonymous,
216:There's like this great thing that Bette Davis said when someone asked her, "How do you get into Hollywood?" "Take Fountain!" ~ Winona Ryder,
217:Though the water running in the fountain be every ones, yet who can doubt, but that in the pitcher is his only who drew it out? ~ John Locke,
218:Conceiving God to be the fountain of wisdom, I thought it right and necessary to solicit his assistance for obtaining it. ~ Benjamin Franklin,
219:God!...If only I had not read so much Egyptology before coming to this land which is the fountain of all darkness and terror! ~ H P Lovecraft,
220:Nature intended you to be the fountain-spring of cheerfulness and social life, and not the mountain of despair and melancholy. ~ Arthur Helps,
221:Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,
222:I discovered something amazing, which has caused a lot of controversy - the fountain of youth. I have to keep it a secret! ~ David Copperfield,
223:Is this what they mean by courage? Simple doing all the things you were trained to do, albeit everything at once and very fast. ~ Ben Fountain,
224:The media, of course, loves to make claims about the fountain of youth. Don't believe it. No one has it. But we're getting close. ~ Michio Kaku,
225:To participate in mission is to participate in the movement of God's love toward people, since God is a fountain of sending love. ~ David Bosch,
226:As if sorrow is the true reality? Without ever putting his mind to it, he's come to believe that loss is the standard trajectory. ~ Ben Fountain,
227:God is an inexhaustible source of all we need. Our unbelief is discovered in how little we avail ourselves of this infinite fountain ~ Paul Washer,
228:Every uncorrected error and unrepented sin is, in its own right, a fountain of fresh error and fresh sin flowing on to the end of time. ~ C S Lewis,
229:I tried to find a place for this new pain, this brand-new baby grief, but there was nowhere to put it. I'd just have to carry it. ~ Carrie Fountain,
230:Like a fountain of refreshing water in the dusty, dry desert streets, a heart God fills with His love ministers life and health. ~ Elizabeth George,
231:Someone who thinks of possessing a fountain made of a winged baby with water shooting out of its mouth must not have too many troubles. ~ Anne Ursu,
232:Few people know so clearly what they want. Most people can't even think what to hope for when they throw a penny in a fountain. ~ Barbara Kingsolver,
233:Self knowers always dwell in El Dorado; they drink from the fountain of youth, and at all times owners of all they wish to enjoy. ~ Claude M Bristol,
234:He took that mental image and filed it away under Pleasant-Sounding Impossibilities. Right between “flying carriage” and “beer fountain. ~ Tessa Dare,
235:THE LITTLE MAN HURRIED into the Fountain and ordered a very large whisky. “Because,” he announced to the pub in general, “I deserve it. ~ Neil Gaiman,
236:I understood why Leo called the fountain Baby Niagara. Because once you see something big, you can't help seeing it in everything small. ~ Ally Condie,
237:I wished for Conrad on every birthday, every shooting star, every lost eyelash, every penny in a fountain was dedicated to the one I loved. ~ Jenny Han,
238:Love was something different. Love was pure delight, a fountain of emotions, sensual delights, and enjoying spending time together. ~ Sergei Lukyanenko,
239:Space. The continual becoming: invisible fountain from which all rhythms flow and to which they must pass. Beyond time or infinity ~ Frank Lloyd Wright,
240:He [William Harvey] bid me to goe to the Fountain-head, and read Aristotle, Cicero, Avicenna, and did call the Neoteriques shitt-breeches. ~ John Aubrey,
241:See yonder rock from which the fountain gushes; is it less compact of adamant, though waters flow from it? Firm hearts have moister eyes. ~ Walter Scott,
242:A beneficent person is like a fountain watering the earth, and spreading fertility; it is, therefore, more delightful to give than to receive. ~ Epicurus,
243:For if joyful is the fountain that rises in the sun, its springs are in the wells of sorrow unfathomable at the foundations of the Earth. ~ J R R Tolkien,
244:I wished for Conrad on every birthday, every shooting star, every lost eyelash, every penny in a fountain was dedicated to the one I loved... ~ Jenny Han,
245:The funny thing is, about the time I let go of any aspiration toward worldly success, that's about the time I started writing decent work. ~ Ben Fountain,
246:They want words. They want contact. They want pictures and autographs. Americans are incredibly polite as long as they get what they want. ~ Ben Fountain,
247:I find endless sustenance in the creative. I freely drink from the fountain of knowledge. I'm forever the student - considered the teacher. ~ Truth Devour,
248:I'm ashamed and embarrassed to say that I've read very little of David Foster Wallace's work. It's a huge gap in my education, one of many. ~ Ben Fountain,
249:Then he took that mental image and filed it away under Pleasant-Sounding Impossibilities. Right between “flying carriage” and “beer fountain. ~ Tessa Dare,
250:Enthusiasm! this is the sign that the creative fountain is in you. “Enthusiasm is the All in All,” said Blake. I must tell you this often.] ~ Brenda Ueland,
251:Fear is the mother of all emotion. Before love, hate, spite, grief, rage, and all the rest, there was fear, and fear gave birth to them all, ~ Ben Fountain,
252:Forget the fountain of youth, pal of mine. You can live to be a thousand, and it won't matter. Mediocrities like you deserve immortality. ~ Gary Shteyngart,
253:For know that all the inferior Creatures when hurt do cry and send forth the complaints to their Maker or grand Fountain whence they proceeded. ~ Tom Tryon,
254:If we have, through grace, an interest in Him who is the Fountain, we may rejoice in him when the streams of temporal mercies are dried up. ~ Matthew Henry,
255:In a nutshell, the fountain of happiness can be found in how you behave, what you think, and what goals you set every day of your life. ~ Sonja Lyubomirsky,
256:I think if you spend much time dwelling on influence you can get self-conscious about every line you write. That's a great way to freeze up. ~ Ben Fountain,
257:Mortal fear is the ghetto of the human soul, to be free of it something like the psychic equivalent of inheriting a hundred million dollars. ~ Ben Fountain,
258:I think we don’t deserve to have you guys die for us. No country that lets its leaders lie like that deserves a single soldier to die for it. ~ Ben Fountain,
259:I write very simple and very naked. That's why it wounds. I'm a grey and blue landscape. I rise in a dry fountain and in the cold light. ~ Clarice Lispector,
260:The Creator, the fountain of all wisdom, the approver of perpetual order, the eternal and superessential spring of geometry and harmonics. ~ Johannes Kepler,
261:The crests above the door lintels still have bumblebees carved into the oak; the ivy-covered fountain in the courtyard is shaped like a hive. ~ Anthony Doerr,
262:God is the universal substance in existing things. He comprises all things. He is the fountain of all being. In Him exists everything that is. ~ Giordano Bruno,
263:The fact is, we are leaky vessels, and we have to keep right under the fountain all the time to keep full of Christ, and so have fresh supply. ~ Dwight L Moody,
264:The recipe says 'stir until the dough holds together'. You'll have a better chance of finding the fountain of youth than stirring this batter. ~ Kristen Ashley,
265:You force all things to flow towards you and into you, so that they shall flow back again out of your fountain as the gifts of your love. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
266:Around us, the disembodied human limbs were piling up, forming a circle around the fountain, fusing themselves to each other like Satan’s LEGO set. ~ David Wong,
267:I quit law in 1988 to start writing, and it took me 17 years from that point to get a book contract. I guess you can say I was on the slow train. ~ Ben Fountain,
268:There is a vast asymmetry in the dynamic here that Billy can’t quite put his finger on, even though it’s the elephant shitting all over the room. ~ Ben Fountain,
269:And see the peaceful trees extend their myriad leaves in leisured dance- they bear the weight of sky and cloud upon the fountain of their veins. ~ Kathleen Raine,
270:That's illegal,' I say.

'I reject law,' she says. 'This fountain has no laws.'

'What about gravity?'

'That's just a good idea. ~ Amelia Gray,
271:Her heart - like every heart, if only its fallen sides were cleared away - was an inexhaustible fountain of love: she loved everything she saw. ~ George MacDonald,
272:In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee ~ Lord Byron,
273:I think that when Evel Knievel crashed over the fountain at Caesars, it kind of gave you a credibility and then anticipation for everything he did. ~ David Blaine,
274:She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love and thought and joy. ~ William Wordsworth,
275:Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress. ~ John Milton,
276:[T]hey know they’re being good when they thank the troops and their eyes shimmer with love for themselves and this tangible proof of their goodness. ~ Ben Fountain,
277:I turned, ran, fired the shotgun into the air and shouted, “Bomb! There’s a bomb in the fountain! Everybody run for your lives! Please don’t not panic! ~ David Wong,
278:The secret of gospel change is being convinced that Jesus is the good life and the fountain of joy. Any alternative we might choose would be the letdown. ~ Tim Chester,
279:...That inner ecstasy of the mind is the secret fountain of perpetual youth and strength in any man. He who finds it finds onmipotence and onmiscience. ~ Walter Russell,
280:America loves to pray, God knows. America prays and prays and prays, it is the land of unchained prayer, and all this ceremonial praying is hard on Billy. ~ Ben Fountain,
281:Open the door, my princess dear, Open the door to thy true love here! And mind the words that thou and I said By the fountain cool, in the greenwood shade. ~ Jacob Grimm,
282:There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Immanuel's Veins. And those plunged beneath that watery grave to drink of His blood will never be the same. ~ Ted Dekker,
283:Elton wanted a garden. They were building all afternoon while we were rehearsing. And then they built a fountain for Elton. And he said, I was only joking! ~ Maurice Gibb,
284:God has set apart India as the eternal fountain-head of holy spirituality, and He will never suffer that fountain to run dry. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Bande Mataram - II, Swaraj,
285:The conscious mind may be compared to a fountain playing in the sun and falling back into the great subterranean pool of subconscious from which it rises. ~ Sigmund Freud,
286:The lesson is never learned—there will always be those who persist in seeking the Fountain of Youth, or at least delaying what is irrevocably ordained. ~ Sherwin B Nuland,
287:We've become obsessed with beauty and the fountain of youth and, frankly, I'm really saddened by the way women mutilate their faces today in search of that. ~ Halle Berry,
288:Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let thy voice,
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. ~ Alfred Tennyson,
289:Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,
290:There was no such thing as perfection in this world, only moments of such extreme transparency that you forgot yourself, a holy mercy if there ever was one. ~ Ben Fountain,
291:The secret of gospel change is being convinced that Jesus is the good life and the fountain of all joy. Any alternative we might choose would be the letdown. ~ Tim Chester,
292:It is one of the worst effects of prosperity to make a man a vortex instead of a fountain; so that, instead of throwing out, he learns only to draw in. ~ Henry Ward Beecher,
293:Rafe blinked hard. Then he took that mental image and filed it away under Pleasant-Sounding Impossibilities. Right between “flying carriage” and “beer fountain. ~ Tessa Dare,
294:They were all lawyers, all schooled in the authority of words, though as their words turned to dust a pall of impotence and futility settled over the mission. ~ Ben Fountain,
295:Without someone to talk to, every sight I saw - whether it was the Trevi Fountain or a canal in Amsterdam - felt simply like a box I'd needed to tick on a list. ~ Jojo Moyes,
296:A cat peeped in the window. It had one white paw. One night it had decided to dip it into the reflection of the moon in a fountain to see what would happen. ~ Heather O Neill,
297:A harsh thing for any young man to hear, but this is part of every youth's education in the world, learning the risks are never fully revealed until you commit. ~ Ben Fountain,
298:A harsh thing for any young man to hear, but this is part of every youth’s education in the world, learning the risks are never fully revealed until you commit. ~ Ben Fountain,
299:God is always messing everything up with rules. He gives us the fountain of youth, but makes it so we have to kill ourselves to get there. Very freaking clever. ~ Sarah Noffke,
300:'La Dolce Vita' made we want to go to Rome and, if not jump into the Trevi Fountain, at least watch someone else do it. Maybe that's why I married an Italian...! ~ Colin Firth,
301:The cry for love and communion and for recognition that rises from the hearts of people in need reveals the fountain of love in us and our capacity to give life. ~ Jean Vanier,
302:There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Immanuel's veins. And those plunged beneath that watery grave to drink of his blood will never be the same. ~ Ted Dekker,
303:She couldn't save them, she couldn't save anyone but herself, which made her presence here the worst sort of self-indulgence, her mission a long-running fantasy. ~ Ben Fountain,
304:He could not comprehend what was happening to him, but it had to do with the casual cruelty of people who'd never missed a meal or had a gun stuck to their heads. ~ Ben Fountain,
305:Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain; if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition. ~ John Milton,
306:And in the fountain squatted a giant crab. I’m not talking ‘giant’ like $7.99 all-you-can-eat Alaskan king crab. I’m talking ‘giant’ like bigger than the fountain. ~ Rick Riordan,
307:What is sure is that technological change is accelerating in all directions and, like children playing in a fountain, consumers are reveling in the experience. ~ Simon Mainwaring,
308:Without someone to talk to, every sight I saw—whether it was the Trevi Fountain or a canal in Amsterdam—felt simply like a name on a list that I needed to check off. ~ Jojo Moyes,
309:I don't want anything to do with anything mechanical between me and the paper, including a typewriter, and I don't even want a fountain pen between me and the paper. ~ Shelby Foote,
310:[When asked if the voice is an instrument:] Yes, of course. Some are violins, some are fountain pens and some are stethoscopes. And others are just washboards. ~ Marilyn vos Savant,
311:I spent about a year and a half doing technical post work on 'The Fountain'. Although I do like the process, I think my favorite part of filmmaking is the actors. ~ Darren Aronofsky,
312:So much of life consists of inertia and drift, the brief savory or sour of any particular day tends to blur into the next so that it all becomes one big flavorless wad. ~ Ben Fountain,
313:A monument of grace, A sinner saved by blood; The streams of love I trace Up to the Fountain, God; And in His sacred bosom see Eternal thoughts of Love to me. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
314:But the law of God came from heaven indeed. God wrote it with his finger, it is the fountain of all wisdom, and therefore shall it continue forever, and never have an end. ~ John Jewel,
315:Is it true you’re James Adams?’ a puffed-out little grey shirt holding a tennis racket asked. ‘The guy who started the food fight and had sex in the campus fountain? ~ Robert Muchamore,
316:I started publishing stories in small magazines early on, but after seven or eight or nine years you feel like you need a little more than that to show for your efforts. ~ Ben Fountain,
317:You make it happen by convincing everyone it’s happening, belief in the first instance being a vaporous construct of duplicity, puff, evasion, cant, and bald-faced lies. ~ Ben Fountain,
318:Before the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be shattered at the fountain, or the wheel be broken at the cistern. ~ Anon, The Bible, Ecclesiastes 12:6,
319:What I didn't realize was how many doors the act of writing unlocks, as if my Dad's old fountain pen wasn't really a pen at all, but some strange variety of skeleton key. ~ Stephen King,
320:What I didn’t realize was how many doors the act of writing unlocks, as if my Dad’s old fountain pen wasn’t really a pen at all, but some strange variety of skeleton key. ~ Stephen King,
321:And in the fountain squatted a giant crab.

I’m not talking ‘giant’ like $7.99 all-you-can-eat Alaskan king crab. I’m talking ‘giant’ like bigger than the fountain. ~ Rick Riordan,
322:Music... will help dissolve your perplexities and purify your character and sensibilities, and in time of care and sorrow, will keep a fountain of joy alive in you. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
323:Within the nature of God is a strength that is fashioned in His perfection. Strength flows from the fountain of God’s integrity. Honest people are the strongest people. ~ James MacDonald,
324:I kept going back while I was writing the novel - which never sold, may it rest in peace - and by the time it was finished I had too many connections to Haiti to walk away. ~ Ben Fountain,
325:you can't untie this knot by listening to
fairy tales
you have to do something inside yourself
the smallest fountain inside of you
is better than a raging river outside ~ Rumi,
326:You can't until this know by listening to fairy tales. You have to do something inside yourself. The smallest fountain inside you is better than a raging river outside. ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,
327:From the respect paid to property flow, as from a poisoned fountain, most of the evils and vices which render this world such a dreary scene to the contemplative mind. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft,
328:She’d seen the fountain pen in his pocket; she knew his handwriting would be precise, elegant. It wasn’t, of course; it was scrambled and raw, a handy metaphor for his soul. ~ Ellen Herrick,
329:Without someone to talk to, every sight I saw - whether it was the Trevi Fountain or a canal in Amsterdam - felt simply like a box I'd needed to tick on a list.
- Lou Clark ~ Jojo Moyes,
330:For if you succeed in making this girl laugh, if you make her laughter ring in the air like a fountain of silver coins cascading to the floor, you will win her heart forever. ~ F lix J Palma,
331:For my part,' said the little prince to himself, 'if I had fifty-three minutes to spare, I would take my time walking slowly towards the nearest fountain of water. ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,
332:This is what he truly envies of these people, the luxury of terror as a talking point, and at this moment he feels so sorry for himself that he could break right down and cry. ~ Ben Fountain,
333:The stone angel did not swoop down from the fountain to carry her off, although honestly, being carried off by an angel did not seem like too terrible a fate at the moment. She ~ T Kingfisher,
334:Troward says, “Feeling is the law, and the law is the feeling,” Feeling is the fountain-head of power. We must charge our mental pictures with feeling in order to get results. ~ Joseph Murphy,
335:A river continually fed by a living fountain may as soon end its streams before it come to the ocean, as a stop be put to the course and progress of grace before it issue in glory. ~ John Owen,
336:I cannot conceive a rank more honorable, than that which flows from the uncorrupted choice of a brave and free people, the purest source and original fountain of all power. ~ George Washington,
337:I'm a fountain of blood in the shape of a girl . . . leave me now return tonight tide will show you the way if you forget my name you will go astray like a killer whale trapped in a bay ~ Bjork,
338:Just because an old fountain gives no more water, it cannot be despised because with the water it provided once, many trees grew up, many thirsty has quenched their thirsts! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,
339:Someone stake that bastard, please, and for the sake of the gods, dust Benny off the table by the fountain. The powder’s disgusting and it’s getting into the blood. (Apollite) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,
340:The only fountain in the wilderness of life, where man drinks of water totally unmixed with bitterness, is that which gushes for him in the calm and shady recess of domestic life. ~ William Penn,
341:The true unconscious is the well-head, the fountain of real motivity. The sex of which Adam and Eve became conscious derived fromthe very God who bade them be not conscious of it. ~ D H Lawrence,
342:A kindly tongue is the lodestone of the hearts of men. It is the bread of the spirit, it clotheth the words with meaning, it is the fountain of the light of wisdom and understanding. ~ Bah u ll h,
343:Perhaps there are people in this world who love their fountain pens with every fiber of their being—and that's very sad. If you're not in love with him, you can understand him. ~ Banana Yoshimoto,
344:A system of cells interlinked within
Cells interlinked within cells interlinked
Within one stem. And dreadfully distinct
Against the dark, a tall white fountain played. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
345:My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course. Ball-point pens are only good for filling out forms on a plane. ~ Graham Greene,
346:Cos'è che vogliono? Si rendono conto di essere vivi? Come se la prolungata e intensa esposizione alla morte fosse la condizione necessaria per partecipare appieno della propria vita. ~ Ben Fountain,
347:The material came bubbling up inside like a geyser or an oil gusher. It streamed up of its own accord, down my arm and out of my fountain pen in a torrent of six thousand words a day. ~ C S Forester,
348:We say of some Nations, the People are lazy, but we should say only, they are poor; Poverty is the Fountain of all Manner of Idleness. —DANIEL DEFOE, A Plan of the English Commerce ~ Neal Stephenson,
349:When there is a fountain of colours, they add charm to your life. In ignorance, emotions are a bother; in knowledge, the same emotions add colours.. enjoy the day with Wisdom! ~ Sri Sri Ravi Shankar,
350:You are the fountain of the sun. I'm the shadow of a willow. You fall upon my forehead. I melt. You slip into my heart. It spills open. You surround me with such sweetness. I make it my home. ~ Rumi,
351:The people are the only legitimate fountain of power, and it is from them that the constitutional charter, under which the several branches of government hold their power, is derived. ~ James Madison,
352:Two young ladies, in toreador pants and mohair sweaters, whose swirling coiffures looked as though they had been squeezed from an icing gun, had ranged themselves at the fountain. They ~ S J Perelman,
353:A couple of the old ladies sat down on the bench near the fountain and the bronze washerwoman. Others had ambled into the cemetery—to check out the accommodations, Tyler guessed. ~ Thomas Olde Heuvelt,
354:But aren't all great quests folly? El Dorado and the Fountain of Youth and the search for intelligent life in the cosmos-- we know what's out there. It's what isn't that truly compels us. ~ Jess Walter,
355:Okay, so maybe they aren't the greatest generation by anyone's standard, but they are surely the best of the bottom third percentile of their own somewhat muddled and suspect generation. ~ Ben Fountain,
356:The only true voyage of discovery, the only fountain of Eternal Youth, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to behold the universe through the eyes of another. ~ Marcel Proust,
357:pr.16.22 Understanding is a fountain of life to one who has it, but the punishment of fools is their folly. pr.16.23 The heart of the wise instructs his mouth, and adds learning to his lips. ~ Anonymous,
358:Unfortunately complaining is one thing Eeyores are not afraid to do. They grudgingly carry their thimbles to the Fountain of Life, then mumble and grumble that they weren't given enough. ~ Benjamin Hoff,
359:How easy is it for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him, and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity to freshen into smiles. ~ Washington Irving,
360:There cannot be heaven without Christ. He is the sum total of bliss; the fountain from which heaven flows, the element of which heaven is composed. Christ is heaven and heaven is Christ. ~ Charles Spurgeon,
361:Divinity lies all around us, but society remains too hidebound to accept that fact...The mother sea and the fountain-head of all religions lies in the mystical experiences of the individual. ~ William James,
362:My counsel is, that we draw water from the true source and fountain, that is, that we diligently search the Scriptures. He who wholly possesses the text of the Bible, is a consummate divine. ~ Martin Luther,
363:I will go to campus alone dressed in antique silk slips and beat-up cowboy boots and gypsy beads, and I will study poetry. I will sit on the edge of the fountain in the plaza and write. ~ Francesca Lia Block,
364:The day before the day before my father killed himself he took my hand in his and said Yoli, it feels to me as though the lights are going out. We were sitting by a fountain in a park at soon. ~ Miriam Toews,
365:A pipe is the fountain of contemplation, the source of pleasure, the companion of the wise; and the man who smokes, thinks like a philosopher and acts like a Samaritan. ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton 1st Baron Lytton,
366:Holy Scripture is the source and norm of sound doctrine (2 Tim. 3:16; see Mark 7:7–8). Doctrine is drawn from Holy Scripture as from a fountain. Doctrine is measured by Holy Scripture as by a rule. ~ Anonymous,
367:I thought when I started writing that I'd have a book out in four or five years, and as it became apparent that that wasn't going to happen, I became increasingly frustrated and unsure of myself. ~ Ben Fountain,
368:We are slowly isolating the genes involved with the aging process. We do not have the fountain of youth, but I think, in the coming decades, we will unravel the aging process at the genetic level. ~ Michio Kaku,
369:This is a truth so brutally self-evident that he can't fathom why it's not more widely perceived, hence his contempt for the usual public shock and outrage when a particular situation goes to hell ~ Ben Fountain,
370:Everyone worries, everyone feels at least a little bit doomed basically all the time, even the richest, most successful, most secure among us live in perpetually anxious states of barely hanging on ~ Ben Fountain,
371:garden was inside a white picket fence. Most of the rosebushes had small buds on them. Some had early blossoms. The bushes were planted in a big circle around a fountain. A statue of a fish stood on its ~ Ron Roy,
372:I've always hated being hemmed in or seeing anybody being hemmed in. Even when I was the smallest child, I couldn't bear being told I couldn't drink at a so-called white drinking fountain. ~ Marian Wright Edelman,
373:everybody around here’s such a major conservative till they get sick, get screwed over by their insurance company, their job goes over to China or whatever, then they’re like, ‘Oooooh, what happened? ~ Ben Fountain,
374:If you think success is about so many more things and is so much more arbitrary, then you can be much more open to the idea that you can be Ben Fountain and publish your great book at forty-nine. ~ Malcolm Gladwell,
375:Well I took her over to a soda fountain over on Bo's She had an Ice Cream Sundae and a hot cup of Jo She leaned way back just to straighten up her hose Well the ice cream melted and the coffee froze. ~ Gene Vincent,
376:[…] Bravo can laugh and feel somewhat superior because they know they’re being used. Of course they do, manipulation is their air and element, for what is a soldier’s job but to be the pawn of higher? ~ Ben Fountain,
377:The ability to ignore the instant chatter of the mind and to recognize there is something beyond it. There is wisdom beyond it, from the fountain of silence. This is the only way to choose yourself. ~ James Altucher,
378:She laughed. ''You seem pretty normal.''
''You've never seen Ben snort Sprite up his nose and then spit it out of his mouth,'' I said.
''I look like a demented carbonated fountain,'' he deadpanned. ~ John Green,
379:If God contains the fullness of all good things in Himself like an inexhaustible fountain, nothing beyond Him is to be sought by those who strike after the highest good and all the elements of happiness. ~ John Calvin,
380:There is no fountain of youth, What you put into your body is what you get out of it. You would not feed your dog a coffee and doughnut for breakfast followed by a cigarette. You will kill the damn dog. ~ Jack LaLanne,
381:You ready to train tonight?" Kyrian
"Sure I can always use another butt-whipping. Stone didn't stuff me in a locker today or slam my head into a fountain. I was beginning to feel neglected." Nick ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,
382:But a lot of the time that's how it works, life gets so dark until we think all the light's gone out of us. But it's there, it's always there. If we just open the door a crack the light comes pouring in. ~ Ben Fountain,
383:But a lot of the time that’s how it works, life gets so dark until we think all the light’s gone out of us. But it’s there, it’s always there. If we just open the door a crack the light comes pouring in. ~ Ben Fountain,
384:He walked on water. Perhaps. But could he have *swum* on land? In matching knickers and dark glasses? With his Fountain in a Love-in-Tokyo? In pointy shoes and a puff? Would he have had the imagination? ~ Arundhati Roy,
385:There might be fish in there, but if there were, they were living on the cigarette ends that were getting pushed around the surface by a sluggish fountain that burped and belched like an asthmatic cow. ~ William Meikle,
386:This-this was what made life: a moment of quiet, the water falling in the fountain, the girl's voice. . . a moment of captured beauty. Those who are truly wise will never permit such moments to escape. ~ Louis L Amour,
387: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,
388:So perhaps, it occurs to Billy, this is the whole point of civilization, the eating of beautiful meals and the taking of decorous dumps, in which case he is for it, having had a bellyful of the other way. ~ Ben Fountain,
389:The sergeant had been leaning, arms crossed, against one of the marble pillars encircling the fountain, but at seeing the tall dragon-masked figure he came near to toppling into the fountain behind him. ~ Steven Erikson,
390:But then self-doubt has always been there for Billy, self-doubt and its cousin the berating voice, these faithful companions have always been on call to help him through the critical junctures of his life. ~ Ben Fountain,
391:I always feel at home where the sugar maple grows.... glorious in autumn, a fountain of coolness in summer, sugar in its veins, gold in its foliage, warmth in its fibers, and health in it the year round. ~ John Burroughs,
392:The fabric of American empire ought to rest on the solid basis of THE CONSENT OF THE PEOPLE. The streams of national power ought to flow from that pure, original fountain of all legitimate authority. ~ Alexander Hamilton,
393:There is a fountain of youth: it is your mind, your talents, the creativity you bring to your life and the lives of the people you love. When you learn to tap this source, you will truly have defeated age. ~ Sophia Loren,
394:We were up the whole night just talking, walking the city. You can walk those blocks forever, take a break on the edge of the fountain, eat pizza and snow cones, awed by the human carnival all around you. ~ Marisha Pessl,
395:A fountain is the memory of nature, this marvelous sound of a little river in the mountains translated to the city. For me, a fountain doesn't mean a big jet of water. It means humidity, the origin of life. ~ Jaume Plensa,
396:And high Delight, a spirit infinite,
That is the fountain of this glorious world,
Delight that labours in its opposite,
Faints in the rose and on the rack is curled. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Parabrahman,
397:Billy suspects his fellow Americans secretly know better, but something in the land is stuck on teenage drama, on extravagant theatrics of ravaged innocence and soothing mud wallows of self-justifying pity. ~ Ben Fountain,
398:Right after I did 'The Fountain,' I wanted to go make a documentary or something that was less constructed - more natural. I was searching for a project, and sniffing around, 'The Wrestler' fit right in ~ Darren Aronofsky,
399:Very soon he’ll be well enough to roll about in mud, eat worms, and walk aimlessly around Nam Poo Fountain again.’ ‘I’m sure he doesn’t see it as aimless. We all have different goals. His are achievable. ~ Colin Cotterill,
400:...a bookworm-one of those men who are born to gnaw dead thoughts. His clothes, you see, are covered with the dust of libraries. He has no inward fountain of ideas..." - "Earth's Holocaust", Hawthorne ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne,
401:Hell is destruction from the presence of the Lord, Th2 1:9. It is a perpetual banishment from the fountain of all good. This is the choice of sinners; and so shall their doom be, to their eternal confusion. ~ Matthew Henry,
402:Thus parents, by humouring and cockering them when little, corrupt the principles of nature in their children, and wonder afterwards to taste the bitter waters, when they themselves have poison'd the fountain. ~ John Locke,
403:You've got the fountain of youth hidden in your pants."

"What the fuck does that even mean?" Hook demanded, then held up a hand. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

"Means fucking keeps you young. ~ S E Jakes,
404:Living, there is no happiness in that. Living: carrying one’s painful self through the world. But being, being is happiness. Being: Becoming a fountain, a fountain on which the universe falls like warm rain. ~ Milan Kundera,
405:I swatted him. “Are you ever going to let it go? It was one time.” “She danced in the fountain on New Year’s Eve, America,” he said, a childish amusement in his eyes. “It was amazing, and I will never let it go. ~ Kiera Cass,
406:(Jer. 2:12-13). What is the essence of evil? It is forsaking a living fountain for broken cisterns. God gets derision and we get death. They are one: in choosing sugarcoated misery we mock the lifegiving God. It ~ John Piper,
407:What he'd like to say is that he's lived it, if not the entire breadth and depth of the Christian faith then certainly the central thrust of it. The mystery, the awe, that huge sadness and grief. Oh my people. ~ Ben Fountain,
408:In our opinion, Coke is great from a can, still good from a bottle, yet hard to get just right from the fountain. But oh, when they do get it right, it tastes good enough to be an eighth wonder of the world. ~ Alecia Whitaker,
409:A painting is merely the image of a tree, a man, or any other object reflected in a fountain. The difference between a painting and sculpture is the difference between a shadow and the thing which casts it. ~ Benvenuto Cellini,
410:He who receives
Light from above, from the Fountain of Light,
No other doctrine needs, though granted true;
But these are false, or little else but dreams,
Conjectures, fancies, built on nothing firm. ~ John Milton,
411:How does it taste?” Carter wondered. Zia smiled. “Stick out your tongue.” To answer Carter’s question, the tattoo tasted like burning car tires. “Ugh.” I spit a blue gob of “order and harmony” into the fountain. ~ Rick Riordan,
412:At some point Billy realized he was expecting the president to act, well, embarrassed? Ashamed? For how fucked up everything obviously was. But the commander in chief seemed well pleased with the state of things. ~ Ben Fountain,
413:The three witches and the knight set off down the hill together, arm in arm, and all four led long and happy lives, and none of them ever knew or suspected that the Fountain's waters carried no enchantment at all. ~ J K Rowling,
414:Walk with me to the edge of the city, / Take off your shoes and feel the earth. / Remember who you are. You are a star. / A mountain, that fountain in the sun. / Your heart is the velvet cave / Where birds sing. ~ Julia Cameron,
415:Blood-black nothingness began to spin. A system of cells interlinked, within cells interlinked, within cells interlinked within one stem. And dreadfully distinct against the dark, a tall white fountain played. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
416:Each leaned on the occult Inconscient’s power,
The fountain of its needed Ignorance,
Archmason of the limits by which it lives. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Yoga of the King, The Yoga of the Spirit’s Freedom and Greatness,
417:All I have to say is, Love one another - that is the height of all philosophy. It is beyond all religions. It is the secret of joy - the fountain of Perpetual Youth - the only rainbow on life's dark cloud. ~ Robert Green Ingersoll,
418:Hip-hop is the fountain of youth. You just don't grow up if you were there. My son's 20. I'm on the same channel he's on. We wear the same clothes, we feel the same thing. It's a weird, weird generation we're in right now. ~ Ice T,
419:If you want to write, then write; if you don't want to write, then don't write. I fell into the former category, and I just made the decision that I'd keep on because I liked it and might someday do something decent. ~ Ben Fountain,
420:And blood-black nothingness began to spin. A system of cells interlinked, within cells interlinked, within cells interlinked within one stem. And dreadfully distinct against the dark, a tall white fountain played. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
421:How could you not wish to see what tomorrow brings? How could you not want to feel the warmth of the sun on your skin, to eat ice cream in the Piazza Navona, to watch the children throwing coins into the fountain? ~ Anthony Horowitz,
422:I am a highly disciplined person. I get up at seven every morning and, still in my pajamas, sit down at my desk where my checkered ring binders and my fountain pen are ready for use. I try to write two pages every day. ~ Orhan Pamuk,
423:No man of sense in the whole world believes in devils any more than he does in mermaids, vampires, gorgons, hydras, naiads, dryads, nymphs, fairies, the Fountain of Youth, [or] the Philosopher's Stone. . . . ~ Robert Green Ingersoll,
424:The fountain of information lies at your fingertips and is accessible anywhere at anytime and schools need to emphasize this. We are no longer in a world where you need to go seek enlightenment, it is everywhere. ~ Christopher Myers,
425:Only in the realm of Praising should Lament walk, the naiad of the wept-for fountain, watching over the stream of our complaint, to keep it clear upon the very stone that bears the arch of triumph and the altar.— ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,
426:You are quaffing drink from a hundred fountains: whenever any of these hundred yields less, your pleasure is diminished. But when the sublime fountain gushes from within you, no longer need you steal from the other fountains. ~ Rumi,
427:A young man needs to know where he stands in the world, not just as a matter of basic human dignity but as determinants in the ways and means of survival, and what you might hope to gain by application of honest effort— ~ Ben Fountain,
428:Their marriage, I knew then, as I must have always known- their marriage was like a long drink of water so icy it turns the teeth to diamonds in your mouth. A drink of water from a frozen fountain, twenty years long. ~ Laura Kasischke,
429:From the sacred center of the world streams forth an irrepressible desire to overcome the silence between things. Art, the ever flowing fountain, reveals the secret of life through word and gesture, color and sound. The ~ Hermann Hesse,
430:How does it taste?” Carter wondered.
Zia smiled. “Stick out your tongue.”
To answer Carter’s question, the tattoo tasted like burning car tires.
“Ugh.” I spit a blue gob of “order and harmony” into the fountain. ~ Rick Riordan,
431:Jay lurched in one direction, jerked back, lurched in another, tripped for no reason. He finally made it through a gauntlet of invisible obstacles and crouched behind a water fountain shaped like a hippopotamous throwing up. ~ Adam Rex,
432:Oh, yes! They, like the lotus flower, make your trouble forgotten. It smell so like the waters of Lethe, and of that fountain of youth that the Conquistadores sought for in the Floridas, and find him all too late." Whilst ~ Bram Stoker,
433:The fountain of youth for me, let’s see…I guess it’s exercise, healthy diet, lots of water, lots of laughter, lots of sex — yes, sex, we need that as human beings. It’s healthy, it’s natural, it’s what we are here to do! ~ Cameron Diaz,
434:Uh, guys?” Jenks said, hovering at the window. “Fountain Square is on fire.”

“What?” I jumped to my feet and turned in one motion. Al rushed to the window, and we pressed our foreheads to the glass, looking down. ~ Kim Harrison,
435:Indifference and neglect often do much more damage than outright dislike. . . . The fountain we destroyed tonight told a lie. We wizards have mistreated and abused our fellows for too long, and we are now reaping our reward. ~ J K Rowling,
436:It is difficult to describe in short the enthusiasm and devotion provoked by and given to my research. We lived almost in poverty. I used pencils, two for a nickel, and could not buy a fountain pen, when I lost mine. ~ Immanuel Velikovsky,
437:She got a whole bunch of elephants and turtles everywhere. Some big, some little, some in the fountain, some up under the trees. Turtles and elephants. And all over her house. Curtains got elephants, bedspreads got turtles. ~ Alice Walker,
438:I tell you, deep inside you is a fountain of bliss, a fountain of joy. Deep inside your center core is truth, light, love, there is no guilt there, there is no fear there. Psychologists have never looked deep enough. ~ Sri Sri Ravi Shankar,
439:Once I got the open tunings for some reason, I began to get the harmonic sophistication that I heard that my musical fountain inside was excited by. Once I got some interesting chords to play with, my writing began to come. ~ Joni Mitchell,
440:The singing triggers a soft detonation at his core, molten parts of him are flying everywhere and his ears ring to the tune of blast harmonics that only he can hear, but what is “The Star Spangled Banner” if not a love song? ~ Ben Fountain,
441:Blessed be God, there is always healing for the broken heart; the fountain is ever flowing to cleanse us from our sins. Truly, O Lord, thou art a God "ready to pardon!" Therefore will we acknowledge our iniquities. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
442:Out of a clean heart comes a clean life and a clean body. Out of a defiled mind proceeds a defiled life and a corrupt body. Thought is the fount of action, life, and manifestation; make the fountain pure, and all will be pure. ~ James Allen,
443:Now what is Love, I pray thee tell?
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell.
It is perhaps that saucy bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell-
And this is Love, as I hear tell. ~ Rosalind Miles,
444:And if a man shall lie with a woman having her sickness, and shall uncover her nakedness; he hath discovered her fountain, and she hath uncovered the fountain of her blood: and both of them shall be cut off from among their people. ~ Anonymous,
445:"If any man thirst, let him come and drink from the rivers of living water" (cf. John 7:38). Where shall he who thirsts come? To heretics where the fountain and river of water is in no way life-giving? Or to the Church, which is One? ~ Cyprian,
446:nodded to the birds, a dozen of them in a black line, wise-eyed and watching. The town-square ran red. Blood in the gutters, blood on the flagstones, blood in the fountain. The corpses posed as corpses do. Some comical, reaching ~ Mark Lawrence,
447:Prayer is an all-efficient panoply, a treasure undiminished, a mine which is never exhausted, a sky unobscured by clouds, a heaven unruffled by the storm. It is the root, the fountain, the mother of a thousand blessings. ~ Saint John Chrysostom,
448:I write everything with fountain pens. I don't know why. I've done it since I was bar mitzvahed. I was given a fountain pen, a Parker fountain pen, and I loved it, and I've never liked writing anything with pencils or ball-points. ~ Tony Kushner,
449:you may fall into error by fixing your minds so much upon the faith which is the channel of salvation as to forget the grace which is the fountain and source even of faith itself. Faith is the work of God’s grace in us. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
450:I personally would like to bring a tortoise onto the stage, turn it into a racehorse, then into a hat, a song, a dragoon and a fountain of water. One can dare anything in the theatre and it is the place where one dares the least. ~ Eugene Ionesco,
451:I really had to decide why I was writing. I had no interest in going back to law; I very briefly - for about six hours - considered going to get my MBA, but in the end, I realized that the only work I really wanted to do was write. ~ Ben Fountain,
452:"Living, there is not happiness in that. Living: carrying one's painful self through the world. But being, being is happiness. Being: becoming a fountain, a vessel of stone on which the universe falls like warm rain." ~ Milan Kundera"Immortality",
453:Even at this altitude, the substitute pilot's bathed in sweat, sweat running down his chin and neck. Fear must be the fountain of youth, because the substitute pilot now looks younger than any of us, doughy and flushed with horror. ~ Karen Russell,
454:Like the curved pipe of a fountain, your arching boughs
drive the sap
downward and up again: and almost without awakening
it bursts out of sleep, into its sweetest achievement.
Like the god stepping into the swan. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,
455:The Bible is endlessly interesting because it is God's story, and God by nature is himself endlessly interesting. The Bible is an ever-flowing fountain. The more you read it, the more you find its truth and beauty to be inexhaustible. ~ D A Carson,
456:The Bible is endlessly interesting because it is God’s story, and God by nature is himself endlessly interesting. The Bible is an ever-flowing fountain. The more you read it, the more you find its truth and beauty to be inexhaustible. ~ D A Carson,
457:But if you do not wish to die of thirst in the desert, drink charity. This is the fountain the Lord has willed to place here, lest we faint on the way, and we shall drink it more abundantly when we come to the Fatherland. ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,
458:The precepts of philosophy and of the Hebrew code, laid hold of actions only. (Jesus) pushed his scrutinies into the heart of man, erected his tribunal in the regions of his thoughts, and purified the waters at the fountain head. ~ Thomas Jefferson,
459:The obligations of law and equity reach only to mankind; but kindness and beneficence should be extended to the creatures of every species, and these will flow from the breast of a true man, as streams that issue from the living fountain. ~ Plutarch,
460:You must intensify and render continuous by repeatedly presenting with suggestive ideas and mental pictures of the feast of good things, and the flowing fountain, which awaits the successful achievement or attainment of the desires. ~ Robert Collier,
461:13    O LORD,  p the hope of Israel,          q all who forsake you shall be put to shame;     those who turn away from you [3]  r shall be written in the earth,         for  s they have forsaken  t the LORD, the fountain of living water. ~ Anonymous,
462:I am a Leo. I was born in August and I love the sunshine. I'm like a cat. We live in a very contemporary house with windows all around it. Wherever a sunspot is, I go to it with my yellow pad and my fountain pen and I write there. ~ Mary Ann Hoberman,
463:Lecturing is that mysterious process by means of which the contents of the note-book of the professor are transferred through the instrument of the fountain pen to the note-book of the student without passing through the mind of either. ~ Harry Lloyd,
464:The men, who lumber around with Cowboys jerseys hanging past their coattails and their pants bagged around the heels of their boots, a fatal foreshortening of vertical line that makes them look like a bunch of hulking twelve-year-olds. ~ Ben Fountain,
465:In the soft grey silence he could hear the bump of the balls: and from here and from there through the quiet air the sound of the cricket bats: pick, pack, pock, puck: like drops of water in a fountain falling softly in the brimming bowl. ~ James Joyce,
466:The rain continued. It was a hard rain, a perpetual rain, a sweating and steaming rain; it was a mizzle, a downpour, a fountain, a whipping at the eyes, an undertow at the ankles; it was a rain to drown all rains and the memory of rains. ~ Ray Bradbury,
467:18    Let your  o fountain be blessed,         and  s rejoice in  t the wife of your youth, 19        a lovely  u deer, a graceful doe.     Let her breasts  v fill you at all times with delight;         be intoxicated [4] always in her love. ~ Anonymous,
468:Ultimately, culture, secular and otherwise, is a collection of survival strategies. The things that look like decoration—poetry, novels, music, dancing—if you strip away all the layers, are mechanisms for coping, surviving, understanding. ~ Ben Fountain,
469:In the inner world, the spring of living symbols and accompanying presences is the source of dreams and visions, as well as the fountain of inspiration at the heart of poetry, art, ritual, mythology, and even religions. ~ Monika Wikman, Pregnant Darkness,
470:Mira sat down on the rim of the fountain. The marble ledge was damp, and mist sprinkled her skin. Coins shimmered under the water like fish scales.

She counted them, each one a wish, and wondered how love could be anything but good. ~ Sarah Cross,
471:Katsa kicked off her shoes, hitched up her skirt, and climbed into the fountain, sighing as the cold water ran between her toes and lapped at her ankles. it was a great improvement over her shoes. She would not put them on again tonight. ~ Kristin Cashore,
472:Where’s Simon?” she asked as they spun again around the champagne fountain. Clary saw Isabelle there, with Alec, both of them in royal blue. They were holding hands like Hansel and Gretel in the dark forest. “This place is for the living, ~ Cassandra Clare,
473:As Samuel Spaulding, Esquire, once said, 'Dig in the earth, delve in the soul.' Spin those mower blades, Bill, and walk in the spray of the Fountain of Youth. End of lecture. Besides, a mess of dandelion greens is good eating once in a while. ~ Ray Bradbury,
474:If you do not lend your car, your fountain pen or your wife to anyone, that is because these objects, according to the logic of jealously, are narcissistic equivalents of the ego: to lose them, or for them to be damaged, means castration. ~ Jean Baudrillard,
475:I got brilliant stories from people who'd never set foot in an MFA program and had published very little, and terrible stories from people who'd published a lot and had all the credentials. It was all over the map and that was part of the fun. ~ Ben Fountain,
476:Do not go for glass beads leaving the mine of diamonds. This life is a great chance. What, seekest thou the pleasures of the world? He is the fountain of all bliss. See for the highest, aim at that highest, and you shall reach the highest. ~ Swami Vivekananda,
477:Unlike a fountain that circulates the same water in an enclosed, perpetually recycling system, a human being circulates thoughts in an unlimited reservoir of self.

Don't limit yourself to being a mere fountain when you contain an ocean. ~ Vera Nazarian,
478:There has been more bloodshed in the name of God than for any other cause, because people never went to the fountain-head; they were content only to give a mental assent to the customs of their forefathers, and wanted others to do the same. ~ Swami Vivekananda,
479:Being young is feeling the pull of unlimited possibility. As long as there are books unread, seas uncharted, mountains unscaled, lands untouched, there remains endless opportunity. Therein lies the secret of youth. I will drink from her fountain. ~ Kambri Crews,
480:War, my friends, is a thing of beauty. Those as says otherwise are losing. If I’d bothered to go over to old Bovid, propped up against the fountain with his guts in his lap, he’d probably take a contrary view. But look where disagreeing got him. ~ Mark Lawrence,
481:And Capwell did feel it, a hot surge of power and vitality and elation. It was as if he’d just won a million bucks in a contest, had a triple orgasm, received a shot of a potent narcotic, drunk deeply from the Fountain of Youth. Simultaneously. ~ Chet Williamson,
482:Other sound than the owl's voice there was none, save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again. ~ Charles Dickens,
483:All the fakeness just rolls right off them, maybe because the nonstop sales job of American life has instilled in them exceptionally high thresholds for sham, puff, spin, bullshit, and outright lies, in other words for advertising in all its forms. ~ Ben Fountain,
484:Why does God allow us to spend so much of life in the heart of battle? Because He never meant for us to sip His Spirit like a proper cup of tea. He meant for us to hold our sweating hands over the fountain and lap up His life with unquenchable thirst. ~ Beth Moore,
485:The hours I spend with you I look upon as sort of a perfumed garden, a dim twilight, and a fountain singing to it. You and you alone make me feel that I am alive. Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough. ~ George Edward Moore,
486:The little boy I watched throwing pebbles into the empty fountain, he wasn't too old to climb trees. You could tell he had too much wisdom for his age. Probably he believed that he wasn't made for this world. I wanted to say to him: If not you, who? ~ Nicole Krauss,
487:He did not understand how such a short time in this house could have returned him to adolescence. He could package the place as hell’s interpretation of the Fountain of Youth and make a fortune: just walk in the door and you’re fifteen all over again. ~ Ann Patchett,
488:He'd say "I love you" to every man in the squad before rolling out, say it straight, with no joking or smart-ass lilt and no warbly Christian smarm in it either, just that brisk declaration like he was tightening the seat belts around everyone's soul. ~ Ben Fountain,
489:Passonate, irreverent, utterly relevant, Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk offers an unforgettable portrait of a reluctant hero. Ben Fountain writes like a man inspired and his razor sharp exploration of our contemporary ironies will break your heart. ~ Margot Livesey,
490:And I pray thee, loving Jesus, that as Thou hast graciously given me to drink in with delight the words of Thy knowledge, so Thou wouldst mercifully grant me to attain one day to Thee, the fountain of all wisdom and to appear forever before Thy face. ~ Venerable Bede,
491:A certain man placed a fountain by the wayside, and he hung up a cup near to it by a little chain. He was told some time after that a great art-critic had found much fault with its design. ‘But,’ said he, ‘do many thirsty persons drink at it? ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
492:All true Christian love is one and the same in its principle. It comes from the same source or fountain and is communicated to the believer by the same Holy Spirit. In this love, both God and man are loved from the same motive, namely, for holiness' sake. ~ R C Sproul,
493:The Bible is an inexhaustible fountain of all truths. The existence of the Bible is the greatest blessing which humanity ever experienced. Few tremble at the Word of God, Few, in reading it, hear the voice of Jehovah, which is full of majesty. ~ Robert Murray M Cheyne,
494:The glories and the beauties of form, color and sound unite in the Grand Canyon - forms unrivaled even by the mountains, colors that vie with sunsets, and sounds that span the diapason from tempest to tinkling raindrop; from cataract to bubbling fountain. ~ John Wesley,
495:The great barrier to worship among God's people is not that we are always seeking our own satisfaction, but that our seeking is so weak and half-hearted that we settle for little sips at broken cisterns when the fountain of life is just over the next hill. ~ John Piper,
496:The owner of the Agut d'Avignon had the air of a 1920s dandy who had ruined himself with one mad night of gambling at baccarat and had only been saved by this restaurant, which he seemed to cherish as if it were his wife or a good fountain pen. ~ Manuel V zquez Montalb n,
497:War, my friends, is a thing of beauty. Those as says otherwise are losing. If I’d bothered to go over to old Bovid, propped up against the fountain with his guts in his lap, he’d probably take a contrary view. But look where disagreeing got him. “Shit-poor ~ Mark Lawrence,
498:For lunches he rode the elevator to the fourth-floor food court and ate Thai Town or Subway at a table tucked among potted tropicals, gazing past milling teenagers to the little penny-choked fountain where a copper salmon spat water into a chlorinated pool. ~ Anthony Doerr,
499:From about the age of 15 or 16 I'd had the notion that I wanted to write fiction, and I'd done enough in college to satisfy myself that I had a knack for it - I wouldn't call it "talent" - though I wondered if I'd ever have the guts to actually commit to it. ~ Ben Fountain,
500:Nothing can produce so great a serenity of life as a mind free from guilt and kept untainted, not only from actions, but purposes that are wicked. By this means the soul will be not only unpolluted but also undisturbed. The fountain will run clear and unsullied. ~ Plutarch,
501:The two weary but still talkative wizards sat in a pair of fan-backed chairs and pitched pebbles at the drunken satyr in the fountain. They talked about wars, enchantments, and obscure facts until the sky above the forest began to be fringed with pale blue. ~ John Bellairs,
502:Don't you need a fountain of love that won't run dry? You'll find one on a stone-cropped hill outside Jerusalem's walls where Jesus hangs, cross-nailed and thorn-crowned. When you feel unloved, ascend this mount. Meditate long and hard on heaven's love for you. ~ Max Lucado,
503:The fountain of content must spring up in the mind, and he who hath so little knowledge of human nature as to seek happiness by changing anything but his own disposition, will waste his life in fruitless efforts and multiply the grief he proposes to remove. ~ Samuel Johnson,
504:All Thy works with joy surround Thee, God of glory, Lord of Love; Stars and angels sing around Thee, Center of unbroken praise. Field and forest, vale and mountain, Flowery meadow, flashing sea, Chanting bird and flowing fountain, Call us to rejoice in Thee. ~ Henry Van Dyke,
505:His roving eyes began to moisten, and before the hymn was ended, scalding tears rolled out of a fountain that had long seemed dry, and followed each other down those cheeks that had oftener felt the storms of heaven, than any testimonials of weakness. ~ James Fenimore Cooper,
506:The fountain of content must spring up in the mind, and he who hath so little knowledge of human nature as to seek happiness by changing anything but his own disposition, will waste his life in fruitless efforts and multiply the grief he proposes to remove. ~ Stephen R Covey,
507:The smartest thing I did in law school: asking my future wife to go out dancing with me. The smartest thing I did when practicing law: quitting. The smartest thing I've done in writing: following my own head and writing what I wanted to write, and nothing but. ~ Ben Fountain,
508:To me the smart thing that governments in the Middle East would be doing right now is taking their oil and gas fountain - and the smartest ones are to some degree - and making sure they're investing in their people to unlock their potential - men and women. ~ Thomas Friedman,
509:I took two fiction-writing courses in college and majored in literature. I felt that I had a knack though I wouldn't go so far as to call it a talent. But it scared me. I felt it was a childish thing wanting to write and that I would forget about it eventually. ~ Ben Fountain,
510:Leah was more than beautiful. She was filled with some spirit, a high quality, which Peony admired and did not understand. The Chinese said of her, "She is heaven-good." They meant that her goodness was natural and that it flowed from a fountain within herself. ~ Pearl S Buck,
511:The Jew is that sacred being, who has brought down from Heaven the everlasting fire, and has illumined with it the entire world. He is the religious source, spring, and fountain out of which all the rest of the peoples have drawn their beliefs and their religions. ~ Leo Tolstoy,
512:What is the essence of evil? It is forsaking a living fountain for broken cisterns. God gets derision and we get death. They are one: choosing sugarcoated misery we mock the lifegiving God. It was meant to be another way: God's glory exalted in our everlasting joy. ~ John Piper,
513:Dear sensibility! Source inexhausted of all that's precious in our joys, or costly in our sorrows! Eternal fountain of our feelings! 'tis here I trace thee and this is thy divinity which stirs within me...All comes from thee, great-great SENSORIUM of the world! ~ Laurence Sterne,
514:If a person wants to be of any use to himself, he better insist on getting his fair share of beauty and pleasure, and if there's something about the system that's keeping him from getting his share, then I think he's well within his rights to fight to change that. ~ Ben Fountain,
515:Let me just say something that I forgot, I also hoped and this was very true in the beginning - that this would also be a place that people would be able to walk in to the fountain and use it in a nice way of reading and examining the quotations on the blocks. ~ Lawrence Halprin,
516:13Jesus answered and said to her, “Whoever drinks of this water will thirst again, 14but whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst. But the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of water springing up into everlasting life. ~ Anonymous,
517:Two shlemiels were drinking tea. In time, one looked up and announced portentously: “Life! What is it? Life—is like a fountain!” The other pondered for a few minutes, then asked, “Why?” The first thought and thought, then sighed. “So okay: life isn’t like a fountain. ~ Leo Rosten,
518:If what we need to dream, to move our spirits most deeply and directly toward and through promise, is discounted as a luxury, then we give up the core -- the fountain -- of our power, our womanness; we give up the future of our worlds. (From "Poetry is Not a Luxury") ~ Audre Lorde,
519:There are three stages of boiling: the first boil is when the little bubbles like the eye of fishes swim on the surface; the second boil is when the bubbles are like crystal beads rolling in a fountain; the third boil is when the billows surge wildly in the kettle. ~ Kakuz Okakura,
520:He was certainly an intensely egotistical and unfeeling man, but the sight of his victim, his first victim, bloody and pitiful at his feet, may have released some long pent fountain of remorse which for a time may have flooded whatever scheme of action he had contrived. ~ H G Wells,
521:Fear is the mother of all emotion. Before love, hate, spite, grief, rage, and all the rest, there was fear, and fear gave birth to them all, and as every combat soldier knows there are as many incarnations and species of fear as the Eskimo language has words for snow. ~ Ben Fountain,
522:The fountain has not played itself out, the Flame still shines, the River still flows, the Spring still bubbles forth, the Light has not faded. But between us and It, there is a veil which is more like fifty feet of solid concrete. Deus absconditus. Or we have absconded. ~ R D Laing,
523:Fear is the mother of all emotion. Before love, hate, spite, grief, rage, and all the rest, there was fear, and fear gave birth to them all, and ask every combat soldier knows there are as many incarnations and species of fear as the Eskimo language has words for snow. ~ Ben Fountain,
524:I will be unneeded, and gladly so, when you realize that the vitality and reinforcement and joy are your own, and rise from the fountain of your own beings; when you realize that you do not need me for protection, for there is nothing you need protect yourself against. ~ Jane Roberts,
525:There is evil poured upon the earth from the overflowings of corruption-- Sickness, and poverty, and pain, and guilt, and madness, and sorrow; But, as the water from a fountain riseth and sinketh to its level, Ceaselessly toileth justice to equalize the lots of men. ~ William Hazlitt,
526:His blessed count’nance; here I could frequent, With worship, place by place where he voutsaf’d Presence Divine, and to my Sons relate; On this Mount he appeerd, under this Tree Stood visible, among these Pines his voice I heard, here with him at this Fountain talk’d: So ~ John Milton,
527:Haiti is unique - the first successful slave revolt in history, the first black republic etc., and then when you get into the culture, the voodoo, and that wonderful synchretization of Christian and African belief and symbology, it's like nothing the world has ever seen. ~ Ben Fountain,
528:When Osiris was shut into the coffer, and cast into the river, he floated to Phenicia, and was there received under the name of Adonis. Isis (his mother, or wife) wandered in quest of him, came to Byblos, and seated herself by a fountain in silence and tears. She ~ Thomas William Doane,
529:Zen, in its essence is the art of seeing into the nature of one's own being, and it points the way from bondage to freedom. By making us drink right from the fountain of life it liberates us from all the yokes under which we finite beings are usually suffering in this world. ~ D T Suzuki,
530:. . . any one episode, or even moment, in a person’s life is so complex, with so many layers of past and present, desire and indifference, drift and drive, consciousness and unconsciousness, that language is the best means we’ve found of approaching that kind of complexity. ~ Ben Fountain,
531:Siamo tutti bravi a chiacchierare, questo l'ho capito, ma adesso basta. Siamo tutti bravi a chiacchierare m a l'unica voce che conta è quella dei soldi, il nostro paese è questo, ragazzi. E io ho paura per questo paese. Penso che dovremmo avere tutti paura per questo paese. ~ Ben Fountain,
532:Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
533:Billy ha il sospetto che i suoi connazionali in segreto la sappiano ben più lunga, ma nel paese si è creata una fissazione per il melodramma adolescenziale, per le più teatrali rappresentazioni di innocenza stuprata e i confortanti fanghi termali della pietà autoassolutoria. ~ Ben Fountain,
534:I started by making pilgrimages to see the originals in Milan, Florence, Paris, Seattle, Madrid, London, and Windsor Castle. That followed Leonardo’s injunction to begin any investigation by going to the source: “He who can go to the fountain does not go to the water-jar. ~ Walter Isaacson,
535:Music is a science, it heals depression, it awakens, most people don't know, they just take music for an entertainment, something to dance to, and enjoy yourself and you go to bed and forget it tomorrow, music must never be forgotten, it's like a fountain that keeps on flowing ~ Peter Tosh,
536:the fountain of content must spring up in the mind: and that he who has so little knowledge of human nature, as to seek happiness by changing any thing but his own dispositions, will waste his life in fruitless efforts, and multiply the griefs which he purposes to remove . ~ Samuel Johnson,
537:When the film was presented in New York, the distributor reproduced the fountain scene on a billboard as high as a skyscraper. My name was in the middle in huge letters, Fellini's was at the bottom, very tiny. Now the name of Fellini has become very great, mine very little. ~ Anita Ekberg,
538:From the purest principles of reason, as well as from the fountain of revealed truth, he demonstrates that the chief and ultimate end of the Supreme Being, in the works of creation and providence, was the manifestation of his own glory in the highest happiness of his creatures. ~ John Piper,
539:Hell wasn't a major reservoir of evil, any more than Heaven, in Crowley's opinion, was a fountain of goodness; they were just sides in the great cosmic chess game. Where you found the real McCoy, the real grace and the real heart-stopping evil, was right inside the human mind. ~ Neil Gaiman,
540:Juno MacGuff: Wise move. I know this girl who had a huge crazy freakout because she took too many behavioral meds at once. She took off all her clothes and jumped into the fountain at Ridgedale Mall and she was like, "Blaaaaah! I'm a kraken from the sea!" Su-Chin: That was you. ~ Diablo Cody,
541:They were dancing around the fountain, arm in arm, in an old Dutch dance, their cheeks touching, their hands entwined. They had no music; they hummed. And there was no reason for them to be dancing that Peter Lake could see, except that it was an exceptionally beautiful night. ~ Mark Helprin,
542:We all believe with the heart and confess with the mouth that there is one only simple and spiritual Being, which we call God; and that He is eternal, incomprehensible, invisible, immutable, infinite, almighty, perfectly wise, just, good, and the overflowing fountain of all good. ~ Anonymous,
543:Here is my fountain, and here is my cup: find fault if you please; but do drink of the water of life. I only care for this. I had rather bless the soul of the poorest crossing-sweeper, or rag-gatherer, than please a prince of the blood, and fail to convert him to God. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
544:To feel the anguish of waiting for the next moment and of taking part in the complex current (of affairs) not knowing that we are headed toward ourselves, through millions of stone beings - of bird beings - of star beings - of microbe beings - of fountain beings toward ourselves. ~ Frida Kahlo,
545:We’d also left lots of time unscheduled—the long stretches of hours we’d spend at the beach or walking around or just hanging out with no plan beyond maybe getting fountain Diet Cokes. It was Sloane—you usually didn’t need more than that to have the best Wednesday of your life. ~ Morgan Matson,
546:When she pushes the button, the secretary
will say, "Yes?" from a thousand miles away,
and Beverly will say, "Something violent
happened here," she among us
understanding this is one way
the violent get you: not by coming
for you, but by leaving you behind. ~ Carrie Fountain,
547:Hell wasn’t a major reservoir of evil, any more than Heaven, in Crowley’s opinion, was a fountain of goodness; they were just sides in the great cosmic chess game. Where you found the real McCoy, the real grace and the real heart-stopping evil, was right inside the human mind. ~ Terry Pratchett,
548:Hell wasn't a major reservoir of evil, any more then Heaven, in Crowley's opinion, was a fountain of goodness; they were just sides in the great cosmic chess game. Where you found the real McCoy, the real grace and the real heart-stopping evil, was right inside the human mind. ~ Terry Pratchett,
549:Noon was approaching and the shadows under the sycamores were thin and short. The surface of the blue-tiled fish-pond was glassily still and water splashed monotonously into the fountain’s basins. Khaemwaset held his fingers under the glittering flow and found it silky and warm. ~ Pauline Gedge,
550:Juno MacGuff: Wise move. I know this girl who had a huge crazy freakout because she took too many behavioral meds at once. She took off all her clothes and jumped into the fountain at Ridgedale Mall and she was like, "Blaaaaah! I'm a kraken from the sea!"
Su-Chin: That was you. ~ Diablo Cody,
551:You can borrow my Blackbird, if you like,' said Ben. This was his new fountain pen, which troubled him. It was guaranteed not to leak but writers and schoolchildren knew better. Ben wished to be relieved of the responsibility of the Blackbird, without losing his own dignity. ~ Penelope Fitzgerald,
552:The whole thrust of science and the medical profession is to try and prevent it from happening, to try to prolong life, to keep you from dying, to keep you from getting older, to rejuvenate you. I mean, that's everybody's wish. The fountain of youth is everybody's sought-after thing. ~ Woody Allen,
553:You can borrow my Blackbird, if you like,' said Ben. This was his new fountain pen, which troubled him. It was guaranteed not to leak, but writers and schoolchildren knew better. Ben wished to be relieved of the responsibility of the Blackbird, without losing his own dignity. ~ Penelope Fitzgerald,
554:E' la maledetta casualità che ti logora, il fatto che la differenza fra la vita, la morte e una ferita tremenda a volte è legata a cose minime come chinarsi ad allacciarsi una scarpa, scegliere il terzo cesso della fila invece del quarto, voltare la testa a sinistra anziché a destra. ~ Ben Fountain,
555:In that moment Ged understood the singing of the bird, and the language of the water falling in the basin of the fountain, and the shape of the clouds, and the beginning and end of the wind that stirred the leaves; it seemed to him that he himself was a word spoken by the sunlight. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,
556:Let me speak frankly: separate but equal is a fraud. It is the language that tried to push Rosa Parks to the back of the bus. It is the motif that determined that black and white people could not possibly drink from the same water fountain, eat at the same table or use the same toilets. ~ David Lammy,
557:Samuel Johnson observed: “The fountain of content must spring up in the mind, and he who hath so little knowledge of human nature as to seek happiness by changing anything but his own disposition, will waste his life in fruitless efforts and multiply the grief he proposes to remove. ~ Stephen R Covey,
558:The moral sense reappears today with the same morning newness that has been from of old the fountain of beauty and strength. You say there is no religion now. 'Tis like saying in rainy weather, There is no sun, when at that moment we are witnessing one of its superlative effects. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
559:When we meditate, we go beyond the swirl of thoughts, memories and emotions that tend to keep us stuck in our ego's story of who we are. We enter an expanded state of awareness and discover our own inner fountain of joy, a source of happiness that isn't dependent on anyone or anything. ~ Deepak Chopra,
560:You are not Melusina, rising from a fountain to easy happiness. You will not be a beautiful woman at court with nothing to do but make magic. The road you have chosen will mean that you have to spend your life scheming and fighting. Our task, as your family, is to make sure you win. ~ Philippa Gregory,
561:I hadn’t thought to bring anything to wash down the blood. I wondered if they had a font for holy water, and whether anyone would object to me using it as a drinking fountain. Though given that I was trying to absorb vampire magic, using holy water as a chaser probably wasn’t a great idea. ~ Jim C Hines,
562:A person deprived of beauty and pleasure puts me in mind of the Haitian notion of a zombie - a person disconnected from his or her soul, a person who works for others' profit but never his own, a person who mindlessly does the bidding of the boss and exists in an emotional and mental limbo. ~ Ben Fountain,
563:Be cheerful [and grateful for the good that you have]: do not brood over fond hopes unrealized until a chain is fastened on each thought and wound around the heart. Nature intended you to be the fountain-spring of cheerfulness and social life, and not the mountain of despair and melancholy. ~ Arthur Helps,
564:It was, all in all, a grand example of interspecies lack of cooperation and the further illustration that might makes right. I stayed in the rest area, in my car, for another half an hour, until everything had settled down, and saw who emerged as the victor. The bees kept the water fountain. ~ Gary Paulsen,
565:But beyond confusion and rage, the strongest feeling I remember having that night was frustrated desire, because I would never be able to satisfy my need to run my hands over Rosa’s body, to penetrate her secrets, to release the green fountain of her hair and plunge into its deepest waters. ~ Isabel Allende,
566:God is the fountain of all blessing and prosperity, and he will be sought to for his blessing. I would therefore advise you not only to be constant in secret and family prayer, and in the public worship of God in his house, but also often to assemble yourselves in private praying societies. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
567:Samuel Johnson observed: “The fountain of content must spring up in the mind, and he who hath so little knowledge of human nature as to seek happiness by changing anything but his own disposition, will waste his life in fruitless efforts and multiply the grief he proposes to remove.” Knowing ~ Stephen R Covey,
568:Not that she means anything by it, he knows. This is simply her lifelong habit of moderation at work, her need to tamp everything down to the routine, the modest, the tepid everyday. He understands the whole concept of boundaries, but there’s a point where this mania for normalizing turns toxic. ~ Ben Fountain,
569:Silver key of the fountain of tears,
Where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild;
Softest grave of a thousand fears,
Where their mother, Care, like a drowsy child,
Is laid asleep in flowers.
Published in Poetical Works, 1839, 1st edition.
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, A Fragment - To Music
,
570:The only true voyage, the only Fountain of Youth,” recited Orphu, “would be found not in traveling to strange lands but in having different eyes, in seeing the universe with the eyes of another person, of a hundred others, and seeing the hundred universes each of them sees, which each of them is. ~ Dan Simmons,
571:When the heart is full of joy, it always allows its joy to escape. It is like the fountain in the marketplace; whenever it is full it runs away in streams, and so soon as it ceases to overflow, you may be quite sure that it has ceased to be full. The only full heart is the overflowing heart. ~ Charles Spurgeon,
572:Reason is natural revelation, whereby the eternal father of light, and fountain of all knowledge, communicates to mankind that portion of truth which he has laid within the reach of their natural faculties: revelation is natural reason enlarged by a new set of discoveries communicated by God. . . . ~ John Locke,
573:She drinks pints of coffee and writes little observations and ideas for stories with her best fountain pen on the linen-white pages of expensive notebooks. Sometimes, when it's going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationery. ~ David Nicholls,
574:I had spent the previous summer and lunch hours during the school year working in my uncle Earl Edmund Sweet’s drugstore soda fountain in Oak Park. That was where I learned that you could influence people with a smile and enthusiasm and sell them a sundae when what they’d come for was a cup of coffee. ~ Ray Kroc,
575:13Jesus answered and told her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will thirst again; 14But whoever drinks from the water that I shall give him will most definitely never thirst, throughout the age;k rather the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain springing up to the life of the Age. ~ Anonymous,
576:I can’t believe that you, a grown woman taller than me and beautiful enough to make my heart ache, will be the same girl I used to lift off the ground so you could reach the drinking fountain, the same girl who used to trundle out of my bedroom draped in a dress and hat and four scarves from my closet. ~ Ted Chiang,
577:Managing our emotions increases intuition and clarity. It helps us self-regulate our brain chemicals and internal hormones. It gives us natural highs, the real fountain of youth we've been searching for. It enables us to drink from elixirs locked within our cells, just waiting for us to discover them. ~ Doc Childre,
578:People are pushing, chesting up, there’s much half-assed shoving and garbled smack talk about who dissed who and who crossed whose line and of course everybody’s gotta have their boy’s back. A melee, you’d call it. A fracas. Not quite a throw-down brawl right here on the sacred turf of Texas Stadium. ~ Ben Fountain,
579:The First Meeting
The first fond meeting holy
Is like the woodbirds' trilling,
Is like a sea-song thrilling,
When red the sun sinks slowly,Is like a horn on mountain,
That wakes time's sleep thereunder
And summons to life's fountain
To meet in nature's wonder.
~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson,
580:These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport. ~ William Shakespeare,
581:As Helena embroidered, the Count would tilt back his chair—balancing himself by resting a foot lightly on the lip of the fountain or the trunk of the tree—in order to read aloud from her favorite works of Pushkin. And hour upon hour, stanza upon stanza, her little needle would go round and round. “Where ~ Amor Towles,
582:Gentle reader, the Fountain of Youth is radioactive, and those who imbibe its poisonous heavy waters will suffer the hideous fate of decaying metal. Yet almost without exception, the wretched idiot inhabitants of our benighted planet would gulp down this radioactive excrement if it were offered. ~ William S Burroughs,
583:She wondered if there was a rule against shellans riding. Probably not... As long as she was sidesaddle, dressed in armor plating, and had a helmet made of reinforced, skid-resistant Kevlar, they'd probably let her go a few circles around the fountain in front of the house. Vroom-vroom. Fucking wheeeeeeee. ~ J R Ward,
584:Hummer with six doors to a side and black-tinted windows for maximum privacy. “What I’m talking a-bout!” cried Sergeant Dime as he pounced on the bar, everyone whooping over all the pimp finery, but after destroying all hopes for a quick recovery Billy subsides into a gnarled, secret funk. “Billy,” says ~ Ben Fountain,
585:The Anglo-Saxon world saw India as an underdeveloped country. The land of snake charmers, the cows on the street, that "ex-colony-backward-nation" kind of viewpoint, very condescending. Europe on the other hand, saw India in a more romantic, mystical, spiritual way, as a place that's a fountain of wisdom. ~ Kabir Bedi,
586:The more talented somebody is, the less they need the props. Meeting a person who wrote a masterpiece on the back of a deli menu would not surprise me. Meeting a person who wrote a masterpiece with a silver Cartier fountain pen on an antique writing table in an airy SoHo loft would seriously surprise me. ~ Hugh MacLeod,
587:My face is still marked with Henry's blood and I bend over this boy as if I'm taking a drink from a fountain in the park. I brush his nearly dead lips and they are dry as the back of my hand. His tongue barely touches mine and pulls away like a thief and oh Lucy if you had only asked me for this. ~ Will Christopher Baer,
588:Seek to be made holier every day; pray, strive, wrestle for the spirit, to make you like God. Be as much you can with God. I declare to you that I had rather be one hour with God than a thousand with the sweetest society on earth or in Heaven. All other joys are but streams; God is the fountain. ~ Robert Murray M Cheyne,
589:You know what I need?” I asked. “A chocolate fountain?” Ethan suggested. “A complete paper set of the Encyclopedia Britannica? A lifetime supply of grilled meat?” “I like all those ideas, but I was thinking a magical spray I can use on Mallory to wash the crazy off her.” “Like Lysol for evil?” Paige asked. ~ Chloe Neill,
590:From the living fountain of instinct flows everything that is creative; hence the unconscious is not merely conditioned by history, but is the very source of the creative impulse. It is like nature herself - prodigiously conservative, and yet transcending her own historical conditions in her acts of creation. ~ Carl Jung,
591:One who has drunk at the fountain of spiritual happiness says good-by of his own accord to the satisfactions that come from a higher professional status ... What is the greatest sign of success for a teacher thus transformed? It is to be able to say, "The children are now working as if I did not exist. ~ Maria Montessori,
592:The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule, time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all things ran their course. ~ Charles Dickens,
593:Kenneth Hagin, the late father of the modern faith movement, stated: Prophecy is supernatural utterance in a known tongue. The Hebrew word “to prophesy” means “to flow forth.” It also carries with it the thought “to bubble forth like a fountain, to let drop, to lift up, to tumble forth, and to spring forth. ~ James W Goll,
594:Joy being of God was a living thing, a fountain not a cistern, one of those divine things that are possessed only as they overflow and flow away, and not easily come by because it must break into human life through the hard crust of sin and contingency. Joy came now here, now there, was held and escaped. ~ Elizabeth Goudge,
595:And may that Being who is supreme over all, the Patron of order, the Fountain of justice, and the Protector, in all ages of the world, of virtuous liberty, continue His blessing upon this nation and its government, and give it all possible success and duration, consistent with the ends of His providence. ~ John Quincy Adams,
596:I’d love to see the Trevi Fountain,” she said. “There’s a fountain on every block,” Leo grumbled. “Or the Spanish Steps,” Hazel said. “Why would you come to Italy to see Spanish steps?” Leo asked. “That’s like going to China for Mexican food, isn’t it?” “You’re hopeless,” Hazel complained. “So I’ve been told. ~ Rick Riordan,
597:I think I was lucky to come of age in a place and time - the American South in the 1960s and '70s - when the machine hadn't completely taken over life. The natural world was still the world, and machines - TV, telephone, cars - were still more or less ancillary, and computers were unheard of in everyday life. ~ Ben Fountain,
598:deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all. ~ Herman Melville,
599:I wanted to be the next Dana Carvey. This was my ultimate goal. If I ever cut into a birthday cake and made a wish, I would wish to be on 'Saturday Night Live.' If I threw a coin into a fountain, I would wish to be on 'Saturday Night Live.' If I saw a shooting star, I would wish to be on 'Saturday Night Live.' ~ Jimmy Fallon,
600:REV21.5 And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he said unto me, Write: for these words are true and faithful. REV21.6 And he said unto me, It is done. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely. ~ Anonymous,
601:The Divine rejoices in your being happy. God, or the Creation, is so happy when you are happy. When you dance, sing, and jump up and down happily, that is true prayer, that is true meditation. Meditation is a fountain of joy, an ecstasy; and Divine enjoys that more. Divine is not fond of your suffering. ~ Sri Sri Ravi Shankar,
602:the sense of being which in calm hours arises, we know not how, in the soul, is not diverse from things, from space, from light, from time, from man, but one with them and proceed obviously from the same source... Here is the fountain of action and of thought... We lie in the lap of immense intelligence. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
603:I can’t believe that you, a
grown woman taller than me and beautiful enough to make my heart ache, will be the
same girl I used to lift off the ground so you could reach the drinking fountain, the
same girl who used to trundle out of my bedroom draped in a dress and hat and four
scarves from my closet. ~ Ted Chiang,
604:Not everyone is born a witch or a saint. Not everyone is born talented, or crooked, or blessed; some are born definite in no particular at all. We are a fountain of shimmering contradictions, most of us. Beautiful in the concept, if we're lucky, but frequently tedious or regrettable as we flesh ourselves out. ~ Gregory Maguire,
605:Not everyone is born a witch or a saint. Not everyone is born talented, or crooked, or blessed; some are born definite in no particular at all. We are a fountain of shimmering contradictions, most of us. Beautiful in the concept, if we’re lucky, but frequently tedious or regrettable as we flesh ourselves out. ~ Gregory Maguire,
606:The solicitor he selected, a Mr Makepeace, had demanded five thousand pounds up front, even before he took the top off his fountain pen, and then another five once he'd briefed Alex Redmayne, the barrister who would represent him in Court. Danny couldn't understand why he needed two lawyers to do the same job. ~ Jeffrey Archer,
607:the sense of being which in calm hours arises, we know not how, in the soul, is not diverse from things, from space, from light, from time, from man, but one with them and proceeds obviously from the same source.... Here is the fountain of action and of thought.... We lie in the lap of immense intelligence. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
608:O holy Jesus, Gentle friend, Morning Star, Midday sun adorned, Brilliant flame of righteousness, life everlasting and eternity, Fountain ever-new, ever-living, ever-lasting. . . . Son of the merciful Father, without mother in heaven, Son of the true Virgin Mary, without father on earth, True and loving Brother. ~ Kenneth McIntosh,
609:We have now in our possession three instruments of civilization, unknown to antiquity. These are the art of printing; free representative government; and, lastly, a pure and spiritual religion, the deep fountain of generous enthusiasm, the mighty spring of bold and lofty designs, the great sanctuary of moral power. ~ Edward Everett,
610:religious lives are marked by a growing hunger after God Himself. They are eager for spiritual realities and will not be put off with words, nor will they be content with correct "interpretations" of truth. They are athirst for God, and they will not be satisfied till they have drunk deep at the Fountain of Living Water. ~ A W Tozer,
611:It is true that God can be known and enjoyed in every legitimate vocation; but when he deploys you from one place to the next, he offers fresh and deeper drinking at the fountain of his fellowship. God seldom calls us to an easier life, but always calls us to know more of him and drink more deeply of his sustaining grace. ~ John Piper,
612:It is the man of science, eager to have his every opinion regenerated, his every idea rationalized, by drinking at the fountain of fact, and devoting all the energies of his life to the cult of truth, not as he understands it, but as he does not yet understand it, that ought properly to be called a philosopher. ~ Charles Sanders Peirce,
613:We were walking toward the fountain, the epicenter of activity, when an older couple stopped and openly observed us. Robert enjoyed being noticed, and he affectionately squeezed my hand. "oh, take their picture," said the woman to her bemused husband, "I think they're artists." "Oh, go on," he shrugged. "They're just kids. ~ Patti Smith,
614:a bruise, blue
in the muscle, you
impinge upon me.
As bone hugs the ache home, so
I'm vexed to love you, your body

the shape of returns, your hair a torso
of light, your heat
I must have, your opening
I'd eat, each moment
of that soft-finned fruit,
inverted fountain in which I don't see me. ~ Li Young Lee,
615:Curran let our a ragged snarl and punched the other wall. It burst and the entire wreck of the house came down in a fountain of dust. He shook his hand, his knuckles bloody.
"Bricks are hard," I told him patiently, as if to a child. "Don't hit bricks. No, no."
Curran picked up a brick and snapped it in half.
Idiot ~ Ilona Andrews,
616:When God is so often spoken of as the last as well as the first, the end as well as the beginning, it is implied that as he is the first, efficient58 cause and fountain from whence all things originate; so, he is the last, final cause for which they are made; the final term to which they all tend in their ultimate issue. This ~ John Piper,
617:He wanted to know what I saw in you. I told him..." he paused again, and then continued almost shyly, "that you poured out honor like a fountain, all around you."

"That's weird. I don't feel full of honor, or anything else, except maybe confusion."

"Naturally not. Fountains keep nothing for themselves. ~ Lois McMaster Bujold,
618:I’ve heard of you,’ Leon said, as James Adams approached. ‘You’re the guy that started the epic food fight in the campus dining-room.’ James smirked. ‘Good to know my legend lives on.’ ‘I bow down before you,’ Alfie said. ‘You’re the guy that had sex in the campus fountain.’ Grace shook her head. ‘No, that was Dave Moss. ~ Robert Muchamore,
619:The color painted within the Green Room was known as "sweetdream" and would render you unconscious in twelve minutes and dead in sixteen, but during those twelve minutes every synapse in your brain would fire in a sparkling fountain of pleasure. The cries from the Green Room were never of pain or fear. They were of ecstasy. ~ Jasper Fforde,
620:We were walking toward the fountain, the epicenter of activity, when an older couple stopped and openly observed us. Robert enjoyed being noticed, and he affectionately squeezed my hand.
"oh, take their picture," said the woman to her bemused husband, "I think they're artists."
"Oh, go on," he shrugged. "They're just kids. ~ Patti Smith,
621:As we pushed off from the fountain, one of the washerwomen leaned forward, practically spilling out of her dress.
"If you ever get tired of skin and bones," she called to Mal," I've got something to tempt you."
I stiffened. Mal glanced over his shoulder. Slowly, he looked her up and down. "No," he said flatly. "You don't. ~ Leigh Bardugo,
622:La paura della morte è la favela dell'animo umano, esserne liberi è l'equivalente psicologico dell'ereditare cento milioni di dollari. Ecco cosa invidia davvero a questa gente, il lusso di considerare il terrorismo un argomento di conversazione, e in questo preciso momento si sente così sfigato che potrebbe scoppiare a piangere. ~ Ben Fountain,
623:You say, "There are men who have no money," and you apply the law. But the law is not a self-supplied fountain, whence every stream may obtain supplies independtly of society. Nothing can enter the public treasury, in favor of one citizen or one class, but what other citizens and other classes have been forced to send to it. ~ Fr d ric Bastiat,
624:I have done many movies that people hadn't seen. 'The Fountain,' I spent a year on that. 'The Prestige' with Chris Nolan, and 'Australia.' From my perspective it's very satisfying. Some movies people see and other movies they don't. 'Wolverine,' 'X Men,' I know that in some level people know me just for that and it's fine for me. ~ Hugh Jackman,
625:Life is a hard fight, a struggle, a wrestling with the principle of evil, hand to hand, foot to foot. Every inch of the way is disputed. The night is given us to take breath, to pray, to drink deep at the fountain of power. The day, to use the strength which has been given us, to go forth to work with it till the evening. ~ Florence Nightingale,
626:A song remembers a home, another conjures fear that home will fall to those who would destroy it. A poet places wine glasses on a fountain’s rim under stars. An artist sets his lost wife on a dome . . . amid stars. A dancer lets the music be what she is, until it stops. Someone made the music, someone plays it while she dances. ~ Guy Gavriel Kay,
627:The afternoon is bright, with spring in the air, a mild March afternoon, with the breath of April stirring, I am alone in the quiet patio looking for some old untried illusion - some shadow on the whiteness of the wall some memory asleep on the stone rim of the fountain, perhaps in the air the light swish of some trailing gown. ~ Antonio Machado,
628:Growing up emotionally neglected is like nearly dying of thirst outside the fenced off fountain of a parent’s warmth and interest. Emotional neglect makes children feel worthless, unlovable and excruciatingly empty. It leaves them with a hunger that gnaws deeply at the center of their being. They starve for human warmth and comfort. ~ Pete Walker,
629:I took one sip and literally spit it out. It was the grossest thing I’d ever tasted. I remember once getting a Diet Coke at a Subway without realizing that the fountain machine didn’t have enough Diet Coke syrup. That’s exactly what this fancy place’s “sparkling” water tasted like. “Something’s wrong with that water,” I protested. The ~ J D Vance,
630:You have the mainstream bourgeois life of the U.S., Europe, the "developed" world - the life of technology, education, mortgages, careers, a certain level of physical comfort - while on the other hand, several billion people on the planet exist on less than a dollar a day. That's a huge and terrible reality to get your head around. ~ Ben Fountain,
631:In a way it's so easy, all he has to do is say what they want to hear and they're happy, they love him, everybody gets along. Sometimes he has to remind himself there's no dishonor in it. He hasn't told any lies, he doesn't exaggerate, yet so often he comes away from these encounters with the sleazy, gamey aftertaste of having lied. ~ Ben Fountain,
632:In a way it’s so easy, all he has to do is say what they want to hear and they’re happy, they love him, everybody gets along. Sometimes he has to remind himself there’s no dishonor in it. He hasn’t told any lies, he doesn’t exaggerate, yet so often he comes away from these encounters with the sleazy, gamey aftertaste of having lied. ~ Ben Fountain,
633:Life in the Army is miserable that way. You fuck up, they scream at you, you fuck up some more and they scream some more, but overlying all the small, petty, stupid, basically foreordained fuckups looms the ever-present prospect of the life-fucking fuckup, a fuckup so profound and all-encompassing as to crush all hope of redemption. ~ Ben Fountain,
634:Mama Juanita. I remember her sitting at the kitchen table when she thought everyone was asleep. She had a cigarillo in one hand and her fountain pen in the other. Usually, a bruja writes their initials after an entry in the Book of Cantos. The map of Los Lagos, and the notes scrawled on the back, are unfinished, anonymous. “Wait, ~ Zoraida C rdova,
635:Before everything happened I wished i had double voice box like a song bird so I could sing two songs at once, the way a bird can harmonize with itself. I wanted to sing crystal clear notes. I wanted to sing them one after anther in ascending order. And at the same time I wanted to let another fountain of notes descend from my heart. ~ Karen Foxlee,
636:Stephen Colbert , whose "The Colbert Report" show ended its run on Comedy Central last week, might be off the airwaves temporarily - but he's back on the walls of the National Portrait Gallery. Friday, the gallery put up a new portrait of the comedian in a spot befitting the host: near some public bathrooms, just above a water fountain. ~ Anonymous,
637:Alla gente tutta quella falsità non fa né caldo né freddo, forse perché l'ininterrotta propaganda commerciale della vita americana le ha instillato soglie eccezionalmente alte di tolleranza per le simulazioni, le gonfiature, le distorsioni, le stronzate e le vere e proprie menzogne, in altre parole per la pubblicità in ogni sua forma. ~ Ben Fountain,
638:Bush, Cheney, Rove, all those guys, they just did what everybody else was doing and I was right there with ’em, chicken as anybody. My problem now is how tough and gung-ho they are, all that bring-it-on crap, I mean, Jesus, show a little humility, people. They ought to be just as careful of your young lives as they were with their own. ~ Ben Fountain,
639:I’ll wish for more wishes,” I offer. Morpheus laughs. “Oh, of course you would. Just like Alice did. She asked for an endless supply of wishes. Then her tears wouldn’t stop falling. That’s how the ocean was born in the first place. We almost never got that fountain stopped. If you try to outsmart magic, there’s always a price to be paid. ~ A G Howard,
640:Some make gods of their pleasures; some choose Mammon for their god; some make gods of their own supposed excellencies, or the outward advantages they have above their neighbors: some choose one thing for their god, and others another. But men can be happy in no other God but the God of Israel: he is the only fountain of happiness. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
641:Husbands take photographs of their wives and children in front of a fountain and call out to the boys who rush back and forth, carrying trays of tea and wrinkly, black dates. We sit at opposite ends of a large wooden bench covered in rugs and pillows; a spot more suited to a courting couple than the two of us who have nothing to say. ~ Jennifer Klinec,
642:In the end, what would you gain from everlasting remembrance? Absolutely nothing. So what is left worth living for? This alone: justice in thought, goodness in action, speech that cannot deceive, and a disposition glad of whatever comes, welcoming it as necessary, as familiar, as flowing from the same source and fountain as yourself. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
643:Ma certo che non sei malato di mente, solo un pazzo vorrebbe tornare in guerra. Invece che all'infermità, diciamo agli avvocati di appellarsi alla momentanea sanità mentale, che ne pensi? Sei troppo sano di mente per tornare in guerra, Billy Lynn ha ritrovato la lucidità. E' il resto del paese che è matto, a volerlo rispedire al fronte. ~ Ben Fountain,
644:Yes! the books - the generous friends who met me without suspicion - the merciful masters who never used me ill! The only years of my life that I can look back on with something like pride... Early and late, through the long winter nights and the quiet summer days, I drank at the fountain of knowledge, and never wearied of the draught. ~ Wilkie Collins,
645:Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice; With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress; In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise. ~ W H Auden,
646:Happiness is caused by things that happen around me, and circumstances will mar it; but joy flows right on through trouble; joy flows in the night as well as in the day; joy flows through persecution and opposition. It is an unceasing fountain bubbling up in the heart; a secret spring the world can't see and doesn't know anything about. ~ Dwight L Moody,
647:Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click. ~ E M Forster,
648:He laughed, and he made me laugh, and it was because his relationship to his faith was not a do-or-die mission but something life-giving and fluid. Like a river. Like a fountain. It was in the generosity of his faith and his love that I found the rest I'd been hoping for when I filled out the applications and packed my bags for Minnesota. ~ Addie Zierman,
649:At first it had slashed up the little silk pockets of her purse. Then she found part of an old thermometer container that slipped over the head of the scalpel, capping it like a fountain pen. It was this cap she removed when the soldier moved into the seat beside her and stretched his arm along the armrest they were (absurdly) meant to share. ~ John Irving,
650:Fig tree, how long it's been full meaning for me, the way you almost entirely omit to flower and into the seasonably-resolute fruit uncelebratedly thrust your purest secret. Like the tube of a fountain, your bent bough drives the sap downwards and up: and it leaps from its sleep, scarce waking, into the joy of its sweetest achievement. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,
651:I said, "You will have to find your answers without me," which made him tap his fountain pen so hard in frustration that it left a large blot of ink on his compulsive little page of notes. If I had not felt so sorry for him, I would have laughed out loud at his desire to pin everything down, at his naïveté, at his childish desire to know. ~ Charlotte Rogan,
652:The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard—both melting away, like the minutes that were falling from the spring of Time—through three dark hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light, and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened. ~ Charles Dickens,
653:The other dragons wheeled into formation around the one bearing the great dog, their long, graceful necks still arched as they sang. They brought their noses close to Nugget’s wet, battered body. Together they lifted the dog into the air so that he appeared to float atop the streams of a fountain, and then they bore him below the surface. ~ Andrew Peterson,
654:I'll stand next to that fountain and wait until the Official find me. And when she does and asks me what I'm doing, I'll tell her and everyone else that I know: t hey are giving us pieces of a real life instead of the whole thing. And I'll tell her that I don't want my life to be samples and scraps. A taste of everything but a meal of nothing. ~ Ally Condie,
655:He opened his palm and saw that the watch remained. Still there. Still real.
Varen looked up at the figure that stood atop the fountain.
With a howl of rage, he made it burst apart.
He fell to his knees amid the wreckage and floating dust.
Crumpling into himself, he released a choking sob, knowing that he, too, belonged to the ruin. ~ Kelly Creagh,
656:The rich, sweet smell of the hayricks rose to his chamber window; the hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air around; the deep-green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened on every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air: and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop were a fountain of inspiration to them. ~ Charles Dickens,
657:It was a cruben, the great one-horned scaled whale of Dara and sovereign of the seas: two hundred feet long and as large next to an elephant as an elephant would be next to a mouse. Its eyes were so dark that they sucked in all sunlight like deep wells, and when the great fish exhaled through its blowhole, the fountain shot as high as a hundred feet. ~ Ken Liu,
658:He takes no pleasure in human tears. He came and wept that He might stop forever the fountain of human tears. He came and bereaved His mother that He might heal all bereavement. He came and lost everything that He might heal the wounds that we have from losing things. And He wants us to take pleasure in Him. Let us put away our doubts and trust Him. ~ A W Tozer,
659:It's an important thing and a necessary thing as a writer to always be reaching outside of yourself. They say write what you know. But what you know is rarely enough. You need to know more. But you've got to approach it with a lot of respect and humility. You owe it to the people and experience you're trying to understand. It's not a casual thing. ~ Ben Fountain,
660:The operation of His life in us is in a true sense spontaneous, that is to say, it is without effort of ours. The all-important rule is not to “try,” but to “trust,” not to depend upon our own strength, but upon His. For it is the flow of life which reveals what we truly are “in Christ.” It is from the Fountain of Life that the sweet water issues. ~ Watchman Nee,
661:Heat without light is blind, as light without heat is cold. The Sun of Righteousness, like the natural luminary, becomes the fountain of life in his appropriate realm by giving heat through light. To the objection that didactic preaching is dry, I answer, that if it ever seems to be so, this is the fault of the preacher and not of the truth. ~ Robert Lewis Dabney,
662:I know your streets, sweet city, I know the demons and angels that flock and roost in your boughs like birds. I know you, river, as if you flowed through my heart. I am your warrior daughter. There are letters made of your body as a fountain is made of water. There are languages of which you are the blueprint and as we speak them the city rises … ~ Cassandra Clare,
663:We are guilty of many errors and many faults, but our worst crime is abandoning the children, neglecting the fountain of life. Many of the things we need can wait. The child cannot. Right now is the time his bones are being formed, his blood is being made, and his senses are being developed. To him we cannot answer ‘Tomorrow,’ his name is today. ~ Gabriela Mistral,
664:When faith is completely replaced by creed, worship by discipline, love by habit; when the crisis of today is ignored because of the splendor of the past; when faith becomes an heirloom rather than a living fountain; when religion speaks only in the name of authority rather than with the voice of compassion—its message becomes meaningless. ~ Abraham Joshua Heschel,
665:From........Witches' Song
The owl is abroad,the bat and the toad,
And so is the cat-a mountain,
The ant and the mole sit both in a hole,
And frog peeps out o'the fountain;
The dogs they do bay,and the timbrels play,
The spindle is now a-turning;
The moon it is red,and the stars are fled,
And all the sky is a-burning.
~ Ben Jonson,
666:it’s very clear to me that my ability to think and write at the same time depends on the flow of ink. The thing I enjoy most is the flow of my own ideas and getting them down on paper. I will not write with a ballpoint pen, because it doesn’t really flow. That’s why I use a fountain pen. And only a fountain pen that really works very well. ~ Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi,
667:The upheavals of adolescence silenced 'A Christmas Carol' for a few years. I became a firebrand atheist. Christmas - humbug! Too commercial! Then I became an agnostic. Christmas was a pro-forma affair, basically a chore. Buy mother a book, dad a new tie, my brother and sister small gifts. Pretend thanks for the fountain pens and shirts I received. ~ Whitley Strieber,
668:We are guilty of many errors and many faults, But our worst crime is abandoning the children, Neglecting the fountain of life. Many of the things we need can wait. The child cannot. Right now is the time his bones are being formed, His blood is being made, And his senses are being developed. To him we cannot answer 'Tomorrow.' His name is 'Today.' ~ Gabriela Mistral,
669:When faith is completely replaced by creed, worship by discipline, love by habit; when the crisis of today is ignored because of the splendors of the past; when faith becomes an heirloom rather than a living fountain; when religion speaks only in the name of authority rather than with the voice of compassion, its message becomes meaningless. ~ Abraham Joshua Heschel,
670:Areila walked like she had somewhere to go. I stood by the fountain and watched her pass, but I didn't speak. It was the lady's prerogative to pretend she didn't see me. She got to the edge of the park; I swear, her foot hovered right over the line, when she turned with military precision and marched back. She stopped in front of me and said, "Hello. ~ Christina Dodd,
671:Pippin glanced in some wonder at the face now close beside his own, for the sound of that laugh had been gay and merry. Yet in the wizard's face he saw at first only lines of care and sorrow; though as he looked more intently he perceived that under all there was a great joy: a fountain of mirth enough to set a kingdom laughing, were it to gush forth. ~ J R R Tolkien,
672:The heart is a gate-less gate to divinity. Move to the heart. We are all hung up, stuck in the head - that is our problem. The only problem is that we think too much. There is only one solution - get down from the head to the heart. All your problems will disappear. Problems are created by the head. The heart is innocent. The heart is a fountain of love. ~ Vasant Lad,
673:I'm a writer, not an editor, and though the editing rarely cut into my writing time, it did take away from that walking-around-thinking-about-it-when-you're-not-thinking-about-it time that I think is important for writers. When you're half-thinking about what you're working on while driving, cooking . . . just letting things sift and settle, come to you. ~ Ben Fountain,
674:1. 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
My heart to joy at the same tone....
And all I loved,
I Loved Alone...

২. একজন শিক্ষিত মানুষ দিয়ে কী হয় ? কিন্তু একশজন খাঁটি মানুষ দিয়ে একটা দেশ পাল্টে দেয়া যায় । - ড.মুহম্মদ জাফর ইকবাল স্যার ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
675:We are in front of a fountain, whose jet she seems to be watching. 'Those are your thoughts and mine. Look where they all start from, how high they reach, and then how it's still prettier when they fall back. And then they dissolve immediately, driven back up with the same strength, then there's that broken spurt again, that fall ... and so on indefinitely. ~ Andr Breton,
676:It is the property of things seen for the first time, or for the first time after long, like the flowers in spring, to reawaken in us the sharp edge of sense and that impression of mystic strangeness which otherwise passes out of life with the coming of years; but the sight of a loved face is what renews a man's character from the fountain upwards. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,
677:The moonlight on the water outside the chamber window throws the reflection of ripples onto the whitewashed ceiling of the room, so they look as if they are underwater, floating with Melusina in the fountain. But I know that they are both gone from me, and our water mother is singing them on their journey down the sweet river to the deep springs of home. ~ Philippa Gregory,
678:You can deny him, he thought, watching his father across the table. You can hate him, love him, pity him, never speak to or look at him in the eye again, never deign even to be in his crabbed and bitter presence, but you're still stuck with the son of a bitch. One way or another he'll always be your daddy, not even all-powerful death was going to change that. ~ Ben Fountain,
679:And Billy, if it’ll ease your mind any, I want you to know you’ve got a standing offer to come work for me when you’re done with your military service. All you’ve got to do is say the word.” Now there was a depressing thought, although Billy could see how it might come to that, assuming best-case scenario he made it home with all his limbs and faculties intact. ~ Ben Fountain,
680:Do not make an excuse that you have not opportunities to do anything for the glory of God, for the interest of the Redeemer's kingdom, and for the spiritual benefit of your neighbors. If your heart is full of love, it will find vent; you will find or make ways enough to express your love in deeds. When a fountain abounds in water it will send forth streams. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
681:Must it ever be thus-that the source of our happiness must also be the fountain of our misery? The full and ardent sentiment which animated my heart with the love of nature, overwhelming me with a torrent of delight, and which brought all paradise before me, has now become an insupportable torment, a demon which perpetually pursues and harrasses me. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
682:My philosophy is fundamentally sad, but I’m not a sad man, and I don’t believe I sadden anyone else. In other words, the fact that I don’t put my philosophy into practice saves me from its evil spell, or, rather, my faith in the human race is stronger then my intellectual analysis of it; there lies the fountain of youth in which my heart is continually bathing. ~ Antonio Machado,
683:Joy and happiness are the indicators of balance in a human machine...An inner joyousness, amounting to ecstasy, is the normal condition of the genius mind. Any lack of that joyousness develops body-destroying toxins. That inner ecstasy of the mind is the secret fountain of perpetual youth and strength in any man. He who finds it finds omnipotence and omniscience. ~ Walter Russell,
684:The only true voyage, the only bath in the Fountain of Youth, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to see the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to see the hundred universes that each of them sees, that each of them is; and this we do [with great artists]; with artists like these we do really fly from star to star. ~ Marcel Proust,
685:Inui’s insane laughter filled the sanctuary. The ceiling peeled off and shards of stained glass danced through the air. They turned into dead rats, German dictionaries, wineglasses, fountain pens, scorpions, cats’ heads, syringes, and a motley jumble of other objects that filled the space, flying around madly, swirling like a whirlwind, surging like a raging sea. ~ Yasutaka Tsutsui,
686:Louie grabbed the flare gun, loaded it, and fired. The flare shot straight at the bomber; for a moment, the men thought that it would hit the plane. But the flare missed, passing alongside the plane, making a fountain of red that looked huge from the raft. Louie reloaded and fired again. The plane turned sharply right. Louie fired two more flares, past the tail. ~ Laura Hillenbrand,
687:We were at the White House a couple of weeks ago," the man says, "they had a state dinner for Prince Charles and Camilla. Listen, those royals are just the finest people, no pretensions to them whatsoever. You can talk to Prince Charles about anything."
Billy nods. There's a silence. Just in time he asks, "What did you talk about?"
"Hunting," the man answers. ~ Ben Fountain,
688:/Farsi & Turkish come let's fall in love again let's turn all the dirt in this world to shiny gold come let's be a new spring a love reborn find our aroma from the essence of all who emit heavenly fragrance like a fresh tree bloom and spread all the blessings right from inside [2079.jpg] -- from Rumi: Fountain of Fire, Translated by Nader Khalili

~ Jalaluddin Rumi, come
,
689:For there upon a bed of soft wool lay the most splendid jewel, a jewel such as Dyson had never dreamed of, and within it shone the blue of far skies, and the green of the sea by the shore, and the red of the ruby, and deep violet rays, and in the middle of all it seemed aflame as if a fountain of fire rose up, and fell, and rose again with sparks like stars for drops. ~ Arthur Machen,
690:One of my favourite contemporary fiction writers is a Texan, Ben Fountain. His extraordinary novel, Billy Lynn's Long Half-Time Walk, all takes place within the half-time show at a Dallas Cowboys football game. No one has better summed up the American appetite for spectacle, the link between sports and politics, and the absolute madness of George W. Bush's Iraq War. ~ Adam Hochschild,
691:We all flow from one fountain- Soul. All are expressions of one love. God does not appear, and flow out, only from narrow chinks and round bored wells here and there in favored races and places, but He flows in grand undivided currents, shoreless and boundless over creeds and forms and all kinds of civilizations and peoples and beasts, saturating all and fountainizing all. ~ John Muir,
692:As Commander-in-Chief, I take pleasure in commending the reading of the Bible to all who serve in the Armed Forces of the United States. Throughout the centuries, men of many faiths and diverse origins have found in the Sacred Book words of wisdom, counsel, and inspiration. It is a fountain of strength...an aid in attaining the highest aspiration of the human soul. ~ Franklin D Roosevelt,
693:I knew—but I did know that I had crossed 700  The border. Everything I loved was lost But no aorta could report regret. A sun of rubber was convulsed and set; And blood-black nothingness began to spin A system of cells interlinked within Cells interlinked within cells interlinked Within one stem. And dreadfully distinct Against the dark, a tall white fountain played. I ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
694:In Heaven there will be no anguish and no duty of turning away from our earthly Beloveds. First, because we shall have turned already; from the portraits to the Original, from the rivulets to the Fountain, from the creatures He made lovable to Love Himself. But secondly, because we shall find them all in Him. By loving Him more than them we shall love them more than we now do. ~ C S Lewis,
695:Weeds could be pulled and new seeds planted, hardened soil tilled and watered to make a fertile bed. Water could be piped in to make an old fountain cascade for the first time. Perhaps my relationship with my mother could be tended in the same way, with care and patience used to rebuild the bedrock of a mother-child bond that had been broken nearly thirty-three years before. ~ Karen White,
696:I actually thought you would be kind," said the vampire.
"Go away!" screamed Devnee.
He did not answer.
"I didn't have to be kind," Devnee told him. "Victoria was kind for me."
He laughed.
"No one can be kind for you, my dear," said the vampire. "But I don't mind, of course. I have you now. There's no escape, my dear. You and I, Devnee Fountain, are a team. ~ Caroline B Cooney,
697:Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise. ~ W H Auden,
698:Because he is; that is, because he is an infinitely glorious, good, wise, holy, powerful, righteous, self-subsisting , self-sufficient , and all-sufficient being; the fountain and author of all being and good; the first cause, last end, and sovereign Lord of all; therefore, he is to be worshipped: therefore, are we to admire, adore, and love him; to praise, to trust and to fear him. ~ John Owen,
699:On a summer morning she woke to a sense of returning health. She had been lying like a waste shore, at low spring-tide, covered with dry seaweeds, withered jelly-fishes, and a multitudinous life that gasped for the ocean: at last the cook washing throb of the great sea of bliss, whose fountain is the heart of God, had stolen upon her consciousness, and she knew that she lived. ~ George MacDonald,
700:Even harder was describing his sense that Shroom’s death might have ruined him for anything else, because when he died? when I felt his soul pass through me? I loved him so much right then, I don’t think I can ever have that kind of love for anybody again. So what was the point of getting married, having kids, raising a family if you knew you couldn’t give them your very best love? ~ Ben Fountain,
701:My sins were the scourges which lacerated those blessed shoulders, and crowned with thorn those bleeding brows: my sins cried "Crucify him! crucify him!" and laid the cross upon his gracious shoulders. His being led forth to die is sorrow enough for one eternity: but my having been his murderer, is more, infinitely more, grief than one poor fountain of tears can express. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
702:Just what she needed. More filth in her soul. Someday, maybe, she would explode from it; someday, maybe, every rotten thing that had ever been done to her and every rotten thing she’d ever done would erupt from her in a fountain of sewage and sorrow, all those secrets she kept even from herself spilling out and adding to the muck she could never wash off no matter how hard she tried. ~ Stacia Kane,
703:This does it; they throw back their heads and roar. In a way it’s so easy, all he has to do is say what they want to hear and they’re happy, they love him, everybody gets along. Sometimes he has to remind himself there’s no dishonor in it. He hasn’t told any lies, he doesn’t exaggerate, yet so often he comes away from these encounters with the sleazy, gamey aftertaste of having lied. ~ Ben Fountain,
704:Rush like a river from the highest mountain, drink from the fountain and stop your counting. What kind of wine does he have in his tavern, oh so enchanted and sing like a mad man. Mad with the love of a wife for her husband, child or mother, sister or brother... sing for the Most High, sing for no other. We are all notes in this eternal song, God plays his flute and we all dance along. ~ Trevor Hall,
705:The mystery of sound is mysticism; the harmony of life is religion. The knowledge of vibrations is metaphysics, the analysis of atoms is science, and their harmonious grouping is art. The rhythm of form is poetry, and the rhythm of sound is music. This shows that music is the art of arts and the science of allsciences; and it contains the fountain of all knowledge within itself. ~ Hazrat Inayat Khan,
706:Why?' He kept asking in his sweetly belling voice, its tone as pure as marbles swirled around a crystal pail. Why him wun up the tree? Why him nest up theah? Why him gadder nuts? Why? Why? Why? And Billy answering every question to the best of his ability, as if anything less would disrespect the deep and maybe even divine force that drove his little nephew toward universal knowledge. ~ Ben Fountain,
707:The Creator is infinite. This means he has all possible existence, perfection, and excellence. This means he must also have all possible honor and respect. In every way God is first and supreme. His excellent qualities are the supreme beauty and glory, the original good, and the fountain of all good. This, of course, means that he must in every way have the highest regard and honor. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
708:When the boy begins to understand that the visible point is preceded by an invisible point, that the shortest distance between two points is conceived as a straight line before it is ever drawn with pencil and paper...the fountain of all thought has been opened to him...the philosopher can reveal him nothing new, as a geometrician he has discovered the basis of all thought. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
709:I had still the ambition, formed in Sligo in my teens, of living in imitation of Thoreau on Innisfree, a little island in Lough Gill, and when walking through Fleet Street very homesick I heard a little tinkle of water and saw a fountain in a shop window which balanced a little ball upon its jet, and began to remember lake water. From the sudden remembrance came my poem Innisfree. ~ William Butler Yeats,
710: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,
711:The possibility of a question of this nature, proves the necessity of laying the foundations of our National Government deeper than in the mere sanction of delegated authority. The fabric of American Empire ought to rest on the solid basis of the consent of the People. The streams of National power ought to flow immediately from that pure original fountain of all legitimate authority. ~ Alexander Hamilton,
712:Another word found in Strong’s Concordance for prophetic impartation is nabiy’, which as we have already seen, is the action of “flowing forth,” or “bubbling forth like a fountain.” This perfectly describes the inspirational gift of prophecy we see so often in meetings, particularly in a setting of a plurality of elders and seasoned, gifted individuals working together as a coordinated team—the ~ James W Goll,
713:I think the themes of The Fountain, about this endless cycle of energy and matter, tracing back to the Big Bang... The Big Bang happened, and all this star matter turned into stars, and stars turned into planets, and planets turned into life. We’re all just borrowing this matter and energy for a little bit, while we’re here, until it goes back into everything else, and that connects us all. ~ Darren Aronofsky,
714:Man's maker was made man that He, Ruler of the stars, might nurse at His mother's breast; that the Bread might hunger, the Fountain thirst, the Light sleep, the Way be tired on its journey; that Truth might be accused of false witnesses, the Teacher be beaten with whips, the Foundation be suspended on wood; that Strength might grow weak; that the Healer might be wounded; that Life might die. ~ Saint Augustine,
715:Once, I ordered two thousand lady bugs from the local garden center and set them loose in the atrium. I sprinkled marigold seeds in the ficus planters and put gold fish in the lobby fountain. These are things I did with no consequences, no repercussions. My nineteen detentions were for smart answers and missed homework. There is no equivalent punishment for making the world a stranger place. ~ Brenna Yovanoff,
716:If thou hast ever come to the blood of sprinkling, thou wilt feel thy need of coming to it every day. He who does not desire to wash in it every day, has never washed in it at all. The believer ever feels it to be his joy and privilege that there is still a fountain opened. Past experiences are doubtful food for Christians; a present coming to Christ alone can give us joy and comfort. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
717:There in heaven this fountain of love, this eternal three in one, is set open
without any obstacle to hinder access to it. There this glorious God is manifested and shines forth in full glory, in beams of love; there the fountain overflows in streams and rivers of love and delight, enough for all to drink at, and to swim in, yea, so as to overflow the world as it were with a deluge of love. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
718:I have a horror of being self-indulgent and wasting time, and there is that risk in doing this kind of work. Are you totally deluded in sitting down at a desk every day and trying to write something? Is it self-indulgent, or might it possibly lead to something worthwhile? At a certain point I decided to keep on because I felt like the work was getting better, and I was taking great pleasure in that. ~ Ben Fountain,
719:Over the years I've come to realize that in a broad sense I'm interested in power and politics. I'm interested in how individuals try to eke out some wiggle room within these large institutions . . . how they eke out some measure of freedom and personal space and integrity . . . trying to negotiate their way toward some sort of, if not happiness, then at least accommodation or peace with themselves. ~ Ben Fountain,
720:The Holy Spirit is the immediate source of all holiness. He is entirely sincere, and perfect in love. He is generous. He is pure in heart, free from selfishness, and never swerves from the path of duty. He is deep like a fountain. He sends forth his virtues in due season. He speaks, and men believe him; he acts, and men are gladdened by him. He possesses all heavenly virtues. He is one with Heaven. ~ Griffith John,
721:5 And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things anew. And he said unto me, bWrite: for these cwords are true and faithful. 6 And he said unto me, It is done. aI am bAlpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the cwater of life freely. 7 He that aovercometh shall binherit call things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my dson ~ Anonymous,
722:I told him that I loved him and that I'd always love him and I felt like a child who throws a centavo into a fountain and then she has to tell someone her most extraordinary wish even though she knows that the wish should be kept secret and that, in telling it, she is quite probably losing it. He replied that I was not to worry, that the penny could come out of the fountain again and again and again. ~ Colum McCann,
723:Comprehending at one bound the myth of Demeter and knowing that she was Demeter, that the fountain between her thighs was my own youth and I Persephone, who had come to her in spring and would come forever, for she was my youth, older than I and yet my youth, my ever-recurrent spring, and spring itself only a metaphor for the source, the waters, the hidden river, the tunnel of life between her thighs. ~ Kate Millett,
724:As her pace through the fountain intensified and her robing started to get soaked, she leaped out of the pool and jogged around, her fists up in front of her, the punches she threw out pumping the air. Being the good, dutiful Chosen was not in her hardwiring, and that was the root of all of the problems between her and her mother. Oh, the waste. Oh, the disappointment. Oh, do get over it, mother dear. Those ~ J R Ward,
725:Man's maker was made man that He, Ruler of the stars, might nurse at His mother's breast; that the Bread might hunger, the Fountain thirst, the Light sleep, the Way be tired on its journey; that Truth might be accused of false witnesses, the Teacher be beaten with whips, the Foundation be suspended on wood; that Strength might grow weak; that the Healer might be wounded; that Life might die. ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,
726:The Christian hope is not for a gradually improving world any more than it is for a fountain of youth. But Christian hope overcomes the forces of despair and decay in the midst of this world, and provides foretastes of the coming kingdom where anyone who will receive the Lamb’s sacrifice will be raised to life, and where the glory and honor of the nations will be presented as offerings to the King of kings. ~ Andy Crouch,
727:There is in all visible things an invisible fecundity, a dimmed light, a meek namelessness, a hidden wholeness. This mysterious Unity and Integrity is Wisdom, the Mother of all, Natura Naturans. There is in all things an inexhaustible sweetness and purity, a silence that is a fountain of action and of joy. It rises up in wordless gentleness and flows out to me from the unseen roots of all created being... ~ Thomas Merton,
728:One receives as reward for much ennui, despondency, boredom -such as a solitude without friends, books, duties, passions must bring with it -those quarter-hours of profoundest contemplation within oneself and nature. He who completely entrenches himself against boredom also entrenches himself against himself: he will never get to drink the strongest refreshing draught from his own innermost fountain. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
729:The fountain that sprang with mingled blood and life in the Dark World, flows here with life only. We have passed the first cataracts, and from here onward the stream flows deep and turns in the direction of the sea. This is the Morning Star which He promised to those who conquer; this is the center of worlds. Till now, all has waited. But now the trumpet has sounded and the army is on the move. Blessed be He! ~ C S Lewis,
730:/Farsi Have no doubts because of trouble nor be thou discomfited; For the water of life's fountain springeth from a gloomy bed. Ah! ye brothers of misfortune! be not ye with grief oppressed, Many are the secret mercies which with the All-bounteous rest. [bk1sm.gif] -- from The Gulistan of Sadi: The Rose Garden, Translated by Edward B. Eastwick

~ Saadi, Have no doubts because of trouble nor be thou discomfited
,
731:There is mercy enough in God to admit an innumerable multitude into heaven. There is mercy enough for all, and there is merit enough in Christ to purchase heavenly happiness for millions of millions, for all men that ever were, are or shall be. And there is a sufficiency in the fountain of heaven’s happiness to supply and fill and satisfy all: and there is in all respects enough for the happiness of all. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
732:My grandfather's short employ at the Ford Motor Company marked the only time any Stephanides has ever worked in the automotive industry. Instead of cars, we could become manufacturers of hamburger platters and Greek salads, industrialists of spanakopita and grilled cheese sandwiches, technocrats of rice pudding and banana cream pie. Our assembly line was the grill; our heavy machinery, the soda fountain. ~ Jeffrey Eugenides,
733:There is in all visible things an invisible fecundity, a dimmed light, a meek namelessness, a hidden wholeness. This mysterious unity and integrity is wisdom, the mother of us all, "natura naturans." There is in all things an inexhaustible sweetness and purity, a silence that is a fountain of action and joy. It rises up in wordless gentleness, and flows out to me from the unseen roots of all created being. ~ Thomas Merton,
734:This Bitter Language I know your streets, sweet city,
I know the demons and angels that flock
and roost in your boughs like birds.
I know you, river, as if you flowed through my heart.
I am your warrior daughter.
There are letters made of your body
as a fountain is made of water.
There are languages
of which you are the blueprint
and as we speak them
the city rises. — Elka Cloke ~ Cassandra Clare,
735:Contemporary trends of thought have imagined art to be a fountain, whereas it is a sponge. They have decided that art ought to gush forth, whereas it should absorb and become saturated. They think it can be broken down into means of depiction, whereas it is composed of organs of perception. Its proper task is to be always among the spectators and to look more purely, receptively and faithfully than all others. ~ Boris Pasternak,
736:You'd think family would be the one sure thing in life, the gimme? Points you got just for being born? So much thick, meaty stuff bound you to these people, so many interlocking spirals of history, genetics, common cause, and struggle that it should be the most basic of all drives, that you would strive to protect and love one another, yet this bond that should be the big no-brainer was in fact the hardest thing. ~ Ben Fountain,
737:For the better part of my last semester at Garden City High, I constructed a physical pendulum and used it to make a "precision" measurement of gravity. The years of experience building things taught me skills that were directly applicable to the construction of the pendulum. Twenty-five years later, I was to develop a refined version of this measurement using laser-cooled atoms in an atomic fountain interferometer. ~ Steven Chu,
738:Scripture is the foundation for all we believe and the fountain from which we daily drink. It was the heart of the sixteenth-century Reformation, and it holds the message of eternal life for ourselves, our children, and our neighbors. It is the sacred Word of God given to us by human authors through the superintendence of the Holy Spirit, and it is our only inerrant and infallible authority for all of faith and life. ~ Anonymous,
739:Always, it seemed, men would overlook unpleasant things for the sake of those that went well. The statues’ eyes for the melodious sounds of the fountain. The deaths of their daughters for the bounty of their trade.
There was great beauty in this qasr, but there was also great ugliness and fear. I would not be like those men who turned their eyes from one to see the other. I would remember what those things cost. ~ E K Johnston,
740:In Fountain Court
The fountain murmuring of sleep,
A drowsy tune;
The flickering green of leaves that keep
The light of June;
Peace, through a slumbering afternoon,
The peace of June.
A waiting ghost, in the blue sky,
The white curved moon;
June, hushed and breathless, waits, and I
Wait too, with June;
Come, through the lingering afternoon,
Soon, love, come soon.
~ Arthur Symons,
741:No it was my choice. It's what I wanted to do. And I knew they'd probably send me to Iraq. It's not like anybody lied to me."
She groans. "Billy, all these mofos ever do is lie. You think if they halfway told the truth we'd even be in a fucking war? You know what I think, I think we don't deserve to have you guys die for us. No country that lets It's leaders lie like that deserves a single soldier to die for it. ~ Ben Fountain,
742:The wind, one brilliant day, called to my soul with an odor of jasmine. "In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses." "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead." "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain." the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you? ~ Antonio Machado,
743:This revelation of the secrets of nature, long mercifully withheld from man, should arouse the most solemn reflections in the mind and conscience of every human being capable of comprehension. We must indeed pray that these awful agencies will be made to conduce to peace among the nations, and that instead of wreaking measureless havoc upon the entire globe, may become a perennial fountain of world prosperity. ~ Winston Churchill,
744:At the door to the locker room Dime asks [Ennis] to autograph his ball. Ennis rears back. He's chuckling but his eyes are wary.

'Why you want that? I'm just an old equipment hand, nobody cares about my autograph.'

'As far as I'm concerned you run the team,' Dime answers, so Ennis laughs and takes the Sharpie and signs his name to Dime's ball, and this will be the only autograph that Dime collects today. ~ Ben Fountain,
745:One of the old Church fathers said that we cannot better understand the Trinity than as a revelation of divine love—the Father, the loving One, the Fountain of love; the Son, the beloved one, the Reservoir of love, in whom the love was poured out; and the Spirit, the living love that united both and then overflowed into this world. The Spirit of Pentecost, the Spirit of the Father, and the Spirit of the Son, is love. ~ Andrew Murray,
746:. . . More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheeps or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Not only for themselves but for those who call them friend? For so this whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,
747:The water that can't be muddied with any stick is deeper than depth The sky and the water are a single deepening blue If you really want to find the source of the Sixth Patriarch's fountain don't look for it on the one bank or the other or in the middle of the stream [2206.jpg] -- from Sun at Midnight: Muso Soseki - Poems and Sermons, Translated by W. S. Merwin / Translated by Soiku Shigematsu

~ Muso Soseki, Clear Valley
,
748:It has been a frustrating game thus far and [the natives] blow off steam by spending money. Happily there is retail at every turn so the crow doesn’t lack for buying opportunities, and it’s the same everywhere Bravo has been, the airports, the hotels, the arenas and convention centers, in the downtowns and the suburbs alike, retail dominates the land. Somewhere along the way America became a giant mall with a country attached. ~ Ben Fountain,
749:Anything's possible in Human Nature," Chacko said in his Reading Aloud voice. Talking to the darkness now, suddenly insensitive to his little fountain-haired niece. "Love. Madness. Hope. Infinite joy." Of the four things that were Possible in Human Nature, Rahel thought that Infinnate Joy sounded the saddest. Perhaps because of the way Chacko said it. Infinnate Joy. With a church sound to it. Like a sad fish with fins all over. ~ Arundhati Roy,
750:Many couples, many people, are not living with real human beings, but with their ghosts. Who has not followed for years the spell of a particular tone of voice, from voice to voice, as the fetishist follows a beautiful foot, scarcely seeing the woman herself? A voice, a mouth, an eye, all stemming from the original fountain of our first desire, directing it, enslaving us, until we choose to unravel the fatal web and free ourselves. ~ Anais Nin,
751:Many couples, many people, are not living with real human beings, but with their ghosts. Who has not followed for years the spell of a particular tone of voice, from voice to voice, as the fetishist follows a beautiful foot, scarcely seeing the woman herself? A voice, a mouth, an eye, all stemming from the original fountain of our first desire, directing it, enslaving us, until we choose to unravel the fatal web and free ourselves. ~ Ana s Nin,
752: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,
753:The Holy Spirit becoming an inhabitant, is a vital principle in the soul: he, acting in, upon and with the soul, becomes a fountain of true holiness and joy, as a spring is of water, by the exertion and diffusion of itself: John iv. 14, “But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him, shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him, shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life,”—compared ~ Jonathan Edwards,
754:I was supremely happy, for I had seen. Nothing could ever be the same. I have drunk at the clear and pure waters and my thirst was appeased. ...I have seen the Light. I have touched compassion which heals all sorrow and suffering; it is not for myself, but for the world. ...Love in all its glory has intoxicated my heart; my heart can never be closed. I have drunk at the fountain of Joy and eternal Beauty. I am God-intoxicated. ~ Jiddu Krishnamurti,
755:would go somewhere, we would seek that spot on earth, where the sun is brightest, the sky the bluest, where the trees are most luxuriant. We would love each other, we would pour our two souls into each other, and we would have a thirst for ourselves which we would quench in common and incessantly at that fountain of inexhaustible love." She interrupted with a terrible and thrilling laugh. "Look, father, you have blood on your fingers! ~ Victor Hugo,
756:Anything's possible in Human Nature," Chacko said in his Reading Aloud voice. Talking to the darkness now, suddenly insensitive to his little fountain-haired niece. "Love. Madness. Hope. Infinite joy."
Of the four things that were Possible in Human Nature, Rahel thought that Infinnate Joy sounded the saddest. Perhaps because of the way Chacko said it.
Infinnate Joy. With a church sound to it. Like a sad fish with fins all over. ~ Arundhati Roy,
757:Something very sinister happens to the people of a country when they begin to distrust their own reactions as deeply as they do here, and become as joyless as they have become. It is this individual uncertainty on the part of white American men and women, this inability to renew themselves at the fountain of their own lives, that makes the discussion, let alone elucidation, of any conundrum—that is, any reality—so supremely difficult. ~ James Baldwin,
758:For years I walked around with the phrase "Green River" because I had seen that on a soda fountain drink when I was probably 8 or 9 years old, and I went, 'Gee, I like that.' Another one was "Lodi", which I thought sounded really cool. I got this cheap little empty plastic notebook at my local drugstore, and bought a little slab of filler paper and the very first title I wrote in it was "Proud Mary". I had no idea what that title meant. ~ John Fogerty,
759:Nerve thy soul with doctrines noble
Nerve thy soul with doctrines noble,
Noble in the walks of time,
Time that leads to an eternal,
An eternal life sublime.
Life sublime in moral beauty,
Beauty that shall never be;
Ever be to lure thee onward,
Onward to the fountain free.
Free to every earnest seeker,
Seeker for the fount of youth;
Youth exultant in its beauty,
Beauty of the living truth.
~ Anonymous,
760:Alice dug into her pocket and pulled out her notebook, hurrying to make a note of the sensation and the day and the people in it, chewing on the end of her fountain pen as her gaze tripped over the sunlit house, the willow trees, the shimmering lake, and the yellow roses climbing on the iron gate. It was like the garden from a storybook- it 'was' the garden from a storybook- and Alice loved it. She was never going to leave Loeanneth. Never. ~ Kate Morton,
761:All this effort for a man who doesn’t even care,” Daisy muttered to herself, thinking dire thoughts about Matthew Swift.
Llandrindon sat a few yards away on the rim of a garden fountain, obediently holding still as she sketched his portrait. She had never been particularly talented at sketching, but she was running out of things to do with him.
“What was that?” the Scottish lord called out.
“I said you have a fine head of hair! ~ Lisa Kleypas,
762:I left my car in the garage, then followed the guard’s directions past a Spanish tile fountain in the lobby to the elevators, and then to the top floor. Another blazered gentleman smiled at me in the lobby, and a third just happened to be on the elevator. Both were polite and both, like the guard in the parking garage, had the corded necks of men who spent a lot of their time honing confrontational skills. Corded necks are a dead giveaway. ~ Robert Crais,
763:But if it is perfectly clear, from what was lately said, that the blood of Christ is the only satisfaction, expiation, and cleansing for the sins of believers, what remains but to hold that purgatory is mere blasphemy, horrid blasphemy against Christ? I say nothing of the sacrilege by which it is daily defended, the offenses which it begets in religion, and the other innumerable evils which we see teeming forth from that fountain of impiety. ~ John Calvin,
764:Like ghosts the children walked across the lawn on their bare feet. The moon was full. Above the damp grass hung a veil of mist, luminous with moonlight and spangled with fireflies. There was no wind, and the sound of the brook was very distinct, tinkling, splashing, running softly. It made Mona think of an ancient fountain, shaped like a shell, covered with moss, and set in a secluded garden. Something she half remembered, or imagined. ~ Elizabeth Enright,
765:It is not as if we had to seek to have more of the Spirit: we have Him in the fulness of the gift as it is. It is rather the Holy Spirit who must have more of us. As we yield ourselves entirely to Him He will entirely fill us. It is from WITHIN that the blessing must come: the fountain of living water is already there; the fountain has only to be open and every obstruction cleared and the water shall stream forth. It must spring from WITHIN. ~ Andrew Murray,
766:I write on a computer, but I've run the complete gambit. When I was very young, I wrote with a ballpoint pen in school notebooks. Then I got pretentious and started writing with a dip pen on parchment (I wrote at least a novel-length poem that way). Moved on to a fountain pen. Then a typewriter, then an electric self-correct. Then someone gave me a word processor and I was amazed at being able to fit ten pages on one of those floppy discs. ~ Charles de Lint,
767:Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the mountains. Near are lakes. Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves. Aroma rises, a strong hair growth of resin. It burns, the orient, a sky of sapphire, cleft by the bronze flight of eagles. Under it lies the womancity, nude, white, still, cool, in luxury. A fountain murmurs among damask roses. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet wine grapes. A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring. ~ James Joyce,
768:Everybody supports the troops," Dime woofs, "support the troops, support the troops, hell yeah we're so fucking PROUD of our troops, but when it comes to actual money? Like somebody might have to come out of pocket for the troops? Then all the sudden we're on everybody's tight-ass budget. Talk is cheap, I got that, but gimme a break. Talk is cheap but money screams, this is our country, guys. And I fear for it. I think we should all fear for it. ~ Ben Fountain,
769:Now we're in a recession, and at war, so people want to see this chihuahua movie, The Fountain. To be told to come to terms with death, that death is the road to all - it's a very intense subject. But as with movies that are very unusual, that have come to be thought of as very interesting, one finds out at the time that they were not understood. So who knows? We'll see. A lot of people really, really loved it, and a lot of people didn't get it. ~ Rachel Weisz,
770:December, 1919
Last night I heard your voice, mother,
The words you sang to me
When I, a little barefoot boy,
Knelt down against your knee.
And tears gushed from my heart, mother,
And passed beyond its wall,
But though the fountain reached my throat
The drops refused to fall.
'Tis ten years since you died, mother,
Just ten dark years of pain,
And oh, I only wish that I
Could weep just once again.
~ Claude McKay,
771:For, the sense of being which in calm hours rises, we know not how, in the soul, is not diverse from things, from space, from light, from time, from man, but one with them, and proceeds obviously from the same source whence their life and being also proceed. We first share the life by which things exist, and afterwards see them as appearances in nature, and forget that we have shared their cause. Here is the fountain of action and of thought. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
772:The whole difference between a man of genius and other men, it has been said a thousand times, and most truly, is that the first remains in great part a child, seeing with the large eyes of children, in perpetual wonder, not conscious of much knowledge--conscious, rather of infinite ignorance, and yet infinite power; a fountain of eternal admiration, delight, and creative force within him meeting the ocean of visible and governable things around him. ~ John Ruskin,
773:11    Has a nation changed its gods,         even though they are no gods?     But my people have changed their glory         for that which does not profit. 12    Be appalled, O heavens, at this;         be shocked, be utterly desolate, declares the LORD, 13    for my people have committed two evils:     they have forsaken me,         the fountain of living waters,     and hewed out cisterns for themselves,         broken cisterns that can hold no water. ~ Anonymous,
774:The enjoyment of God is the only happiness with which our souls can be satisfied. To go to heaven, fully to enjoy God, is infinitely better than the most pleasant accommodations here. Fathers and mothers, husbands, wives, or children, or the company of earthly friends, are but shadows; but God is the substance. These are but scattered beams, but God is the sun. These are but streams, but God is the fountain. These are but drops; but God is the ocean.16 ~ Joel R Beeke,
775:The store was filled with hollow-eyed people standing in line: at the sandwich counter, at the soda fountain, at the register. All of them waiting, waiting, their hands full of candy, chips, cups of coffee, money. It was like purgatory, with snacks. Not just the customers; the employees, too. They worked the registers, squirted ketchup on hot dogs, piled limp lettuce onto flaccid lunch meat and waited for it to be over, waited until they could go home. ~ Kelly Braffet,
776:Perhaps the only people who need go thirsty through the street where there is a drinking fountain, are the fine ladies and gentlemen who are in their carriages. They are very thirsty—but cannot think of being so vulgar as to get out to drink. It would demean them, they think, to drink at a common drinking fountain—so they ride by with parched lips. Oh, how many there are who are rich in their own good works and cannot therefore come to Christ! ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
777:Religion declined not because it was refuted, but because it became irrelevant, dull, oppressive, insipid. When faith is completely replaced by creed, worship by discipline, love by habit; when the crisis of today is ignored because of the splendor of the past; when faith becomes an heirloom rather than a living fountain; when religion speaks only in the name of authority rather than with the voice of compassion—its message becomes meaningless. ~ Abraham Joshua Heschel,
778:But is it such a bad thing to live like this for just a little while? Just for a few months of one's life, is it so awful to travel through time with no greater ambition than to find the next lovely meal? Or to learn how to speak a language for no higher purpose than that it pleases your ear to hear it? Or to nap in a garden, in a patch of sunlight, in the middle of the day, right next to your favourite fountain? And then to do it again the next day? ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
779:I look forward serenely to the course of events, confident that the Fountain of supreme wisdom and virtue will provide for the happiness of his creatures... Whenever the present storm subsides, I shall rush with eagerness into the bosom of private life, but while it continues, and while my country calls for the exertion of that little share of abilities, which it has pleased God to bestow on me, I hold it my indispensable duty to give myself to her. ~ Gouverneur Morris,
780:So what does it mean for a person to devote himself or herself to, as you put it, “literary reading and thinking”? I would argue this is a person who’s trying to see things for what they are. Who’s interested in distinguishing the truth from the lies, the real from the fake, the solid from the cheap. Those are the people who want to think for themselves, and I really question whether we can make good lives for ourselves if we aren’t doing our own thinking. ~ Ben Fountain,
781:But is it such a bad thing to live like this for just a little while? Just for a few months of one’s life, is it so awful to travel through time with no greater ambition than to find the next lovely meal? Or to learn how to speak a language for no higher purpose than that it pleases your ear to hear it? Or to nap in a garden, in a patch of sunlight, in the middle of the day, right next to your favorite fountain? And then to do it again the next day? Of ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
782:Upon finding the letter, I had one of those out of body experiences that come only after poring over archival material for nine hours straight, most of it dull as dust, but then something like this appears and you look around at the two or three other glaze-eyed researchers and want to go around the room and give everyone a high-five, but instead you just get up and quietly go to the water fountain, then make a notation for photocopy, and crack the next folder. ~ Jay Kirk,
783:The Founder-Director purposely designed the building in a U-shape, in the interior of which is a courtyard with a central fountain, to reflect the introspective nature of a true Muslim, a universal and perfect man. These interior parts of the building are hidden from the outside in contrast to secularized buildings which face the road and are exposed to the busy traffic of secular life and are therefore without real privacy and introspective spirit. ~ Wan Mohd Nor Wan Daud,
784:Father, I am empty, but you are full. I am hungry, but you are the Bread of Heaven. I am thirsty, but you are the Fountain of Life. I am weak, but you are strong. I am poor, but you are rich. I am foolish, but you are wise. I am broken, but you are whole. I am dying, but your steadfast love is better than life” (see Psalm63:3). When God sees this confession of need and this expression of trust, he acts, because the glory of his all-sufficient grace is at stake. ~ John Piper,
785:The foundation of the Christian's peace is everlasting; it is what no time, no change can destroy. It will remain when the body dies; it will remain when the mountains depart and the hills shall be removed, and when the heavens shall be rolled together as a scroll. The fountain of His comfort shall never be diminished, and the stream shall never be dried. His comfort and joy is a living spring in the soul, a well of water springing up to everlasting life. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
786:Thou livest, but not from determined time or known epoch. Thou livest, but not with soul or breath, for Thou art soul of the soul. Thou livest, but not as the life of man that is like vanity, its end in moths and worms. Thou livest, and whoever attains Thy secret will find eternal delight -- "and eat, and live for ever." [1568.jpg] -- from The Heart and the Fountain: An Anthology of Jewish Mystical Experiences, by Joseph Dan

~ Solomon ibn Gabirol, Thou Livest
,
787:Variations: II

Green light, from the moon,
Pours over the dark blue trees,
Green light from the autumn moon
Pours on the grass ...
Green light falls on the goblin fountain
Where hesitant lovers meet and pass.

They laugh in the moonlight, touching hands,
They move like leaves on the wind ...
I remember an autumn night like this,
And not so long ago,
When other lovers were blown like leaves,
Before the coming of snow. ~ Conrad Aiken,
788:Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt, And cling to faith beyond the forms of faith; She reels not at the storm of warring words; She brightens at the clash of "Yes" and "No"; She sees the best that glimmers through the worst; She feels the sun is hid for the night; She spies the summer through the winter bud; She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls; She hears the lark within the songless egg; She finds the fountain where they wailed "Mirage!" ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,
789:The tuning knob continued to extract noises from the tiny box, then it settled down, it was a song, a song of no significance, but the blind internees slowly began gathering round, without pushing, they stopped the moment they felt a presence before them and there they remained, listening, their eyes wide open tuned in the direction of the voice that was singing, some were crying, as probably only the blind can cry, the tears simply flowing as from a fountain. ~ Jos Saramago,
790:A school she visited the month before had not even had a working water fountain. In the classroom she'd observed there, two windows had been patched with masking tape and cardboard. Halfway through the class, a scrawny, feral-looking cat had slipped beneath the cardboard and hissed at a boy seated near the window. The teacher remarked on none of it. He'd just gone on lecturing in a resigned monotone until the cat drew closer and the boy smacked it with a notebook. ~ Idra Novey,
791:From the accession of Henry the Seventh to the breaking out of the civil wars, England enjoyed much greater exemption from war, foreign and domestic, than for a long period before, and during the controversy between the houses of York and Lancaster. These years of peace were favorable to commerce and the arts. Commerce and the arts augmented general and individual knowledge; and knowledge is the only fountain, both of the love and the principles of human liberty. ~ Daniel Webster,
792:From the Heliconian Muses, let us now begin the song
Of those who hold the great and sacred hill of Helicon,
And dance on tender feet around the dark spring in a row,
And round about the altar of the son of Kronos go;
And when in the Permessos they have bathed their soft, young skin,
Or sacred stream Olmeios or the fountain Hippocrene,
They make their dancing chorus on the heights of Helicon­ --
So beautiful, beguiling, as their feet glide swiftly on. ~ Hesiod,
793:Just what she needed. More filth in her soul. Someday, maybe, she would explode from it, someday maybe, every rotten thing that had every been done to her and every rotten thing she’d ever done would erupt from her in a fountain of sewage and sorrow, all those secrets she kept even from herself spilling out and adding to the muck she could never wash off no matter how hard she tried.

She’d never been bound by magic to keep those secrets. Just by her own shame. ~ Stacia Kane,
794:Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all. ~ Herman Melville,
795:III. Happiness is nowhere else to be had, but in their God, and with their people. There are that are called gods many, and lords many. Some make gods of their pleasures; some choose Mammon for their god; some make gods of their own supposed excellencies, or the outward advantages they have above their neighbors: some choose one thing for their god, and others another. But men can be happy in no other God but the God of Israel: he is the only fountain of happiness. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
796:Smugglers are always going to be flush with cash as soon as they find a buyer for the eight cartons of fountain pen cartridges that write in illegal shades of green, but they never have money today. You should, if you are going to run a smugglers' hotel, get a big account book and assume that whatever you write in it, the reality is, you're going to get paid in fountain pen cartridges. If you're lucky. You could just as easily get paid with something even more useless. ~ Kate Milford,
797:I want to take the word Christianity back to Christ himself, back to that mighty heart whose pulse seems to throb through the world today, that endless fountain of charity out of which I believe has come all true progress and all civilization that deserves the name. I go back to that great Spirit which contemplated a sacrifice for the whole of humanity. That sacrifice is not one of exclusion, but of an infinite and endless and joyous inclusion. And I thank God for it. ~ Julia Ward Howe,
798:To the north of Armenia lies Zorzania Georgia, near the confines of which there is a fountain of oil which discharges so great a quantity as to furnish loading for many camels. The use made of it is not for the purpose of food, but as an unguent for the cure of cutaneous distempers in men and cattle, as well as other complaints, and it is also good for burning. In the surrounding country no other oil is used in their lamps, and people come from distant parts to procure it. ~ Marco Polo,
799:Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all. ~ Herman Melville,
800:The sword pulled free with a gruesome sucking sound that brought bile into Jason’s throat. The fellow collapsed, his eyes going dull as his bright blood spurted in a grotesque fountain that soaked Jason’s shirt and choked his nostrils with a salty, metallic stench. Stunned, he watched the blood pump hard then slow to a trickle—a spreading red puddle that seeped into the cracks between the stones. The dead man’s face drained of color, to match the white lace at his throat. ~ Lauren Royal,
801:How blessed to know that we dwell in the domains of grace  and not of law! When thinking of my state before God the question is  not, "Am I perfect in myself before the law?" but, "Am I perfect in  Christ Jesus?" That is a very different matter. We need not enquire,  "Am I without sin naturally?" but, "Have I been washed in the fountain  opened for sin and for uncleanness?" It is not "Am I in myself well  pleasing to God?" but it is "Am I accepted in the Beloved? ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
802:Yet those who embrace Him, who believe in His name, find His Light, His I AM setting them free to become their true selves, free to live as children of God in the darkness, discovering their origin beyond their earthly parents in the Word in God. And so the Word became flesh and entered the darkness in person, and found His way within us. And we perceived His true identity, His glory as the only begotten out of the Father, an overflowing fountain of grace and truth. This ~ C Baxter Kruger,
803:I leaned back on my palms, looking at the Milky Way spilling in modest grandeur across the sky. A fountain of stars frothing over, surrounded by a mist of stardust. It looked like raw magic, like the glimmer I’d spy in a shadowy corner where the sun skimmed off invisible particles, reminding me there was a whole hidden world tucked inside this ordinary one. And it was up there every night, offering its mute beauty while we sat here with our heads down, tragically terrestrial. ~ Leah Raeder,
804:Manicured lawns and dozens of trees give it a peaceful, parklike atmosphere. The interior of the school is even more impressive. The main entrance has a huge fountain that is even LARGER than the one at the mall. There are tall columns, arched hallways, shiny marble floors, elegant chandeliers, and a courtyard with a fishpond and a rose garden! I feel like a traitor even thinking this, but NHH makes Westchester Country Day look like a basic, no-frills daycare center! ~ Rachel Ren e Russell,
805:Chose the wrong door, you see. No, that's not right. That's wrong. Reverse that. Strike that. Didn't choose the door. Should have gone through it but didn't. Didn't, didn't, didn't. Want to go back and walk through it, because I think it would be good, but I can't now. What's done is done. Over. Finished. I went the other way. Didn't even put my hand on the knob." Simon looked up, his gaze darting back and forth between Marcus and the fountain and his shoes. "Had my chance. ~ James L Rubart,
806:I am going to be Queen of England,' I protest. 'You make it sound like a battle to the death.'
'It is a battle to the death,' she says simply. 'That is what it means to be Queen of England. You are not Melusina, rising from a fountain to easy happiness. You will not be a beautiful woman at court with nothing to do but make magic. The road you have chosen will mean that you have to spend your life scheming and fighting. Our task, as your family, is to make sure you win. ~ Philippa Gregory,
807:It was a hard rain, a perpetual rain, a sweating and steaming rain; it was a mizzle, a downpour, a fountain, a whipping at the eyes, an undertow at the ankles; it was a rain to drown all rains and the memory of rains. It came by the pound and the ton, it hacked at the jungle and cut the trees like scissors and shaved the grass and tunneled the soil and molted the bushes. It shrank men’s hands into the hands of wrinkled apes; it rained a solid glassy rain, and it never stopped. ~ Ray Bradbury,
808:Soft sun shone down on a misty cathedral at the opposite end of a football-field length courtyard. The cathedral had a long pointed tower with beautiful rose and ivory stained glass windows. Pink-petal flowers and deep green ivy climbed the stones from the ground to it’s roof. A large fountain stood in the middle of the courtyard with water falling from several lion’s heads. Between the misty air and rolling slope of the earth, the grounds reminded me of a long lost fairy tale. ~ Priya Ardis,
809:When Pike reached home, he stretched in the parking lot to cool, then peeled off his sweatshirt, deactivated the alarms, and let himself in. His condo was austere and functional with little in the way of decoration. Dining room set off the kitchen; couch, chair, and coffee table in the living room; a flat-screen television for sports and news. A black stone meditation fountain burbled in the corner. Pike found peace in the natural sound, as if he were alone in the forest. Pike ~ Robert Crais,
810:Your love, O Lord, reaches to the heavens, Your faithfulness to the skies. Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains, Your justice like the great deep. O Lord, You preserve both man and beast. How priceless is Your unfailing love! Both high and low among men find refuge in the shadow of Your wings. I want to feast on the abundance of Your house; I want to drink from Your river of delights. For with You is the fountain of life; in Your light I want to see light (Ps. 36:5-9). ~ Beth Moore,
811:Your love, O Lord, reaches to the heavens, Your faithfulness to the skies. Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains, Your justice like the great deep. O Lord, You preserve both man and beast. How priceless is Your unfailing love! Both high and low among men find refuge in the shadow of Your wings. I want to feast on the abundance of Your house; I want to drink from Your river of delights. For with You is the fountain of life; in Your light I want to see light. (Ps. 36:5–9) ~ Beth Moore,
812:The true-life stories sound like jokes with the same punch line: Why did the man almost walk into a bear? Why did the woman tumble into a fountain? Why did the tourist fall off a pier? Because the man, the woman and the tourist were all so engrossed in their cell phones that they had ceased paying attention to their surroundings. With people more tethered than ever to smartphones, "distracted walking" is becoming enough of a problem that American cities are taking steps to curb it. ~ Anonymous,
813:Whereas there can be but one Baptism, they think they can Baptize; they have abandoned the fountain of life, yet promise the life and grace of the waters of salvation. It is not cleansing which men find there, but soiling; their sins are not washed away, but only added to. That being "born again" does not bring forth sons to God but to the Devil. Born of a lie, they cannot inherit the things which Truth has promised; begotten by the faithless, they are deprived of the grace of faith. ~ Cyprian,
814:Every successful man or great genius has three particular qualities in common. The most conspicuous of these is that they all produce a prodigious amount of work. The second is that they never know fatigue. And the third is that their minds grow more brilliant as they grow older, instead of less brilliant. Great men's lives begin at forty, where the mediocre man's life ends. The genius remains an ever-flowing fountain of creative achievement until the very last breath he draws. ~ Walter Russell,
815:The biggest surprise for me, without a doubt, was that the first black people who came to the United States weren't the 20 who arrived in Jamestown in 1619. All of us had been taught that. Well, guess what? The first African came to Florida in 1513. And the huge shock is we know his name, Juan Garrido, and that he wasn't a slave. He was free! This brother was a conquistador who came with Ponce de Leon. He was looking for the Fountain of Youth just like the white people were. ~ Henry Louis Gates,
816:Therefore, in reading profane authors, the admirable light of truth displayed in them should remind us, that the human mind, however much fallen and perverted from its original integrity, is still adorned and invested with admirable gifts from its Creator. If we reflect that the Spirit of God is the only fountain of truth, we will be careful, as we would avoid offering insult to him, not to reject or condemn truth wherever it appears. In
despising the gifts, we insult the Giver. ~ John Calvin,
817:He lied to you too, Sophie"

"I know," I said softly.

"You're risking that adorable little neck of yours for an asshole."

"I am," I admitted. The fountain was now a blur as the wind played with the carefully structured pattern of the water. "But here's the thing...he's my asshole."

"Is this about ownership?" Marcus asked incredulously, "Or is it about love?"

"It's about love," I whispered. "Marcus I...I love my asshole, okay? I love him so much. ~ Kyra Davis,
818:Love is the river of life in this world. Think not that ye know it who stand at the little tinkling rill, the first small fountain. Not until you have gone through the rocky gorges, and not lost the stream; not until you nave gone through the meadow, and the stream has widened and deepened until fleets could ride on its bosom; not until beyond the meadow you have come to the unfathomable ocean, and poured your treasures into its depths--not until then can you know what love is. ~ Henry Ward Beecher,
819:Let faith and life be put  together, and, like the two abutments of an arch, they will make our  piety enduring. Like light and heat streaming from the same sun, they  are alike full of blessing. Like the two pillars of the temple, they  are for glory and for beauty. They are two streams from the fountain of  grace; two lamps lit with holy fire; two olive trees watered by  heavenly care. O Lord, give us this day life within, and it will reveal  itself without to thy glory.  ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
820:English version by Anonymous Incited by something external Is like a small lamp Whose flame is fed with oil, Or like a stream fed by rains, Where flows stop when the rains cease. But love whose object is God is like A fountain gushing forth From the earth. Its flow never ceases, For He Himself is the source of this love And also its food, Which never grows scarce. [1831.jpg] -- from Poetry for the Spirit: Poems of Universal Wisdom and Beauty, Edited by Alan Jacobs

~ Isaac of Stella, Love
,
821:The Bidet
In my cousin's mansion in California
my uncle and aunt, tourists
saw it separately.
At first, they didn't know what it was neither basin nor commode
neither bowl nor bathtub
they circled round it anxiously
and silently.
Could it be a drinking-water fountain?
Later, when they knew, they tried
it tentatively; the dwarflike jet of water sprang ceilingward
and surprised their secret regions.
[From St Cyril Road and other poems]
~ Amit Chaudhuri,
822:The Wind, One Brilliant Day
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.'
'I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.'
'Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.'
the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
'What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?'
~ Antonio Machado,
823:Moreover, the very belief that Americans had somehow discovered the ultimate answer to mankind's eternal quandaries and were now poised to establish heaven on earth was a delusion that deserved to be ranked alongside the fables about the Holy Grail and the fountain of youth. "We may boast that we are one, the chosen people,: he (Adams) warned, " and we may even thank God that we are not like other men, but, after all, it would be but flattery, delusion, the self-deceit of the Pharisee. ~ Joseph J Ellis,
824:Through the Spirit of God the hope of heaven is the most powerful force for producing virtue; it is a fountain of joyful endeavor; it is the cornerstone of cheerful holiness. Those who have this hope in them go about their work with vigor, for the joy of the Lord is their strength. They fight hard against temptation, for the hope of the next world repels the fiery darts of the adversary. They can work without immediate reward, for they anticipate a reward in the world to come. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
825:He decides he wants both more or less. He’d like to hang with Beyonce in a nice way, get to know her by doing small pleasant things together like playing board games and going out for ice cream, or how about this, a three-week trial run in some tropical paradise where they can hang together in that nice way and possibly fall in love, and meanwhile fuck each other’s brains out in their spare time. He wants both, he wants the entire body-soul connect because anything less is just demeaning. ~ Ben Fountain,
826:In this hour of all-but-universal darkness one cheering gleam appears: within the fold of conservative Christianity there are to be found increasing numbers of persons whose religious lives are marked by a growing hunger after God Himself. They are eager for spiritual realities and will not be put off with words, nor will they be content with correct "interpretations" of truth. They are athirst for God, and they will not be satisfied till they have drunk deep at the Fountain of Living Water. ~ A W Tozer,
827:But at least he’d died at home and not some hospice. Who in their right mind wanted to die among the dying? Or surrounded by a load of caring, sharing hospice nurses hell-bent on making sure you’d drawn up a “good death plan.” If you were having an OK day, somebody might wheel you into the hospice garden and sit you on a wooden bench donated by relatives of a former dying person. From there you would, no doubt, have an uninterrupted view of the ornamental fountain and fiberglass flamingos. ~ Sue Margolis,
828:O, how wonderful is the human voice! It is indeed the organ of the soul! The intellect of man sits enthroned visibly upon his forehead and in his eye; and the heart of man is written upon his countenance. But the soul reveals itself in the voice only; as God revealed himself to the prophet of old in the still, small voice; and in a voice from the burning bush. The soul of man is audible, not visible. A sound alone betrays the flowing of the eternal fountain, invisible to man! ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
829:What really separates ordinary citizens from emperors, monsters, superstars and immortal leading brands? “Normal” people simply don’t have the huevos to withstand disgrace. They usually don’t use fire-hose blasts of negative attention as an opportunity to run out and court more negative attention, by throwing up on the prime minister, or purposefully running down the parking valet, or instigating an “ethnic cleansing” or “accidentally” shaving their crotch in a public water fountain. But, ~ Cintra Wilson,
830:Dread of returning to Iraq equals the direst poverty, and that's how he feels right now, poor, like a shabby homeless kid suddenly thrust into the company of millionaires. Mortal fear is the ghetto of the human soul, to be free of it something like the psychic equivalent of inheriting a hundred million dollars. This is what he truly envies of these people, the luxury of terror as a talking point, and at this moment he feels so sorry for himself that he could break right down and cry. ~ Ben Fountain,
831:We are apt to consider that invention is the result of spontaneous action of some heavenborn genius, whose advent we must patiently wait for, but cannot artificially produce. It is unquestionable, however, that education, legal enactments, and general social conditions have a stupendous influence on the development of the originative faculty present in a nation and determine whether it shall be a fountain of new ideas or become simply a purchaser from others of ready-made inventions. ~ John Ambrose Fleming,
832:You know, sometimes my bars feel like imaginary places I created in my mind. Castles in the air. I plant some flowers here, construct a fountain there, crafting everything with great care. People stop by, have drinks, listen to music, talk, and go home. People are willing to spend a lot of money to come all this way to have some drinks - and do you know why? Because everyone’s seeking the same thing: an imaginary place, their own castle in the air, and their very own special corner of it. ~ Haruki Murakami,
833:And thus the widow’s deep grief was softened, and a sweet balm was poured into the wound which she had thought nothing but death could heal. How much kinder is God to us than we are willing to be to ourselves! At the loss of every dear face, at the last going of every well-beloved one, we all doom ourselves to an eternity of sorrow, and look to waste ourselves away in an ever-running fountain of tears. How seldom does such grief endure! How blessed is the goodness which forbids it to do so ~ Anthony Trollope,
834:It is unnatural that a pure stream should flow from a foul fountain its vices are but a continuation of the vices of its origin. A man of moral honor and good political principles, cannot submit to the mean drudgery and disgraceful arts, by which such elections are carried. To be a successful candidate, he must be destitute of the qualities that constitute a just legislator: and being thus disciplined to corruption it is not to be expected that the representative should be better than the man. ~ Thomas Paine,
835:As the people are the only legitimate fountain of power, and it is from them that the constitutional charter, under which the several branches of government hold their power, is derived, it seems strictly consonant to the republican theory, to recur to the same original authority, not only whenever it may be necessary to enlarge, diminish, or new-model the powers of the government, but also whenever any one of the departments may commit encroachments on the chartered authorities of the others. ~ James Madison,
836:The house we were renting that spring belonged to Sara Mankiewicz, Herman Mankiewicz’s widow, who was traveling for six months, and although she had packed away the china she did not want used along with Herman Mankiewicz’s Academy Award for Citizen Kane (you’ll have friends over, she had said, they’ll get drunk, they’ll want to play with it) she had left out her Minton dinner plates, the same pattern as the Minton tiles that line the arcade south of Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, for me to use. ~ Anonymous,
837:This was my conversion to the baroque. Here under that high and insolent dome, under those tricky ceilings; here, as I passed through those arches and broken pediments to the pillared shade beyond and sat, hour by hour, before the fountain, probing its shadows, tracing its lingering echoes, rejoicing in all its clustered feats of daring and invention, I felt a whole new system of nerves alive within me, as though the water that spurted and bubbled among its stones was indeed a life-giving spring. ~ Evelyn Waugh,
838:Flowers—well—if Anybody
137
Flowers—Well—if anybody
Can the ecstasy define—
Half a transport—half a trouble—
With which flowers humble men:
Anybody find the fountain
From which floods so contra flow—
I will give him all the Daisies
Which upon the hillside blow.
Too much pathos in their faces
For a simple breast like mine—
Butterflies from St. Domingo
Cruising round the purple line—
Have a system of aesthetics—
Far superior to mine.
~ Emily Dickinson,
839:Lucy swayed in shock. A gust of wind moaned through the conservatory and blew out all but one of her candles. Simon must have done this. He’d destroyed his fairyland conservatory. Why? She sank to her knees, huddled on the cold floor, her one remaining
flame cradled in her numb palms. She’d seen how tenderly Simon had cared for his plants. Remembered the look of pride when she’d first discovered the dome and fountain. For him to have smashed all this . . .
He must have lost hope. All hope. ~ Elizabeth Hoyt,
840:Far Away From Here
This is the sanctuary
where the prettified young lady,
calm, and always ready,
fans her breasts, aglow,
elbow on the pillow,
hears the fountain’s flow:
it’s the room of Dorothea.
- The breeze and water distantly
sing their song, mingled here
with sobs to soothe the spoiled child’s fear.
From tip to toe, most thoroughly,
her delicate surfaces appear,
oiled with sweet perfumery.
- the flowers nearby swoon gracefully.
~ Charles Baudelaire,
841:So give me back that time again, When I was still ‘becoming’,    [185] When words gushed like a fountain In new, and endless flowing, Then for me mists veiled the world, In every bud the wonder glowed, A thousand flowers I unfurled,    [190] That every valley, richly, showed. I had nothing, yet enough: Joy in illusion, thirst for truth. Give every passion, free to move, The deepest bliss, filled with pain,    [195] The force of hate, the power of love, Oh, give me back my youth again! ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
842:...he wonders by what process virtually any discussion about the war seems to profane these ultimate matters of life and death. As if to talk of such things properly we need a mode of speech near the equal of prayer, otherwise just shut, shut your yap and sit on it, silence being truer to the experience than the star-spangled spasm, the bittersweet sob, the redeeming hug, or whatever this fucking closure is that everybody's always talking about. They want it to be easy and it's just not going to be. ~ Ben Fountain,
843:God was full of Wine last night, so full of wine that He let a great secret slip.
He said: There is no man on earth who needs a pardon from Me -
For there is really no such thing, no such thing as sin!
That Beloved has gone completely wild . He has poured Himself into me!
I am blissful and drunk and overflowing.
Dear world, draw life from my sweet body,
Dear wayfaring souls, come drink your fill of liquid rubies,
For God has made my heart
An Eternal Fountain!
~ Hafiz, The Great Secret
,
844:And if men come unto me I will show unto them their aweakness. I bgive unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my cgrace is sufficient for all men that dhumble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make eweak things become strong unto them. 28 Behold, I will show unto the Gentiles their weakness, and I will show unto them that afaith, hope and charity bringeth unto me—the fountain of all brighteousness. ~ The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints,
845:First, consider the pen you write with. It should be a fast-writing pen because your thoughts are always much faster than your hand. You don't want to slow up your hand even more with a slow pen. A ballpoint, a pencil, a felt tip, for sure, are slow. Go to a stationery store and see what feels good to you. Try out different kinds. Don't get too fancy and expensive. I mostly use a cheap Sheaffer fountain pen, about $1.95.... You want to be able to feel the connection and texture of the pen on paper. ~ Natalie Goldberg,
846:No matter their age or station in life, Billy can't help but regard his fellow Americans as children. They are bold and proud and certain in the way of clever children blessed with too much self-esteem, and no amount of lecturing will enlighten them as to the state of pure sin toward which war inclines. He pities them, scorns them, loves them, hates them, these children. These boys and girls. These toddlers, these infants. Americans are children who must go somewhere else to grow up, and sometimes die. ~ Ben Fountain,
847:The Humming Bird
A sudden whirr of eager sound—
And now a something throbs around
The flowers that watch the fountain. Look!
It touched the rose, the green leaves shook,
I think, and yet so lightly tost
That not a spark of dew was lost.
Tell me, O rose, what thing it is
That now appears, now vanishes?
Surely it took its fire-green hue
From day-breaks that it glittered through;
Quick, for this sparkle of the dawn
Glints through the garden and is gone.
~ Edwin Markham,
848:I like to think of it as ‘I’m trying to keep us calm.’ You’re dead certain we’re headed to Alcatraz.”

“Alcatraz isn’t a functioning prison anymore,” I say.

“You’re a functioning prison,” she says.

“That doesn’t make sense!”

“Neither does splashing and frolicking and groping your dick in the Bellagio fountain, but in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a whole buffet of doesn’t make sense going on right now. So load up your plate, grab the crab legs before they run out, and eat. ~ Lila Monroe,
849:The townhouse was in a community called Waterview, a pretty green place with a common that had a gazebo and a fountain. The homes were red-brick colonial and beautiful. The townhouse Paxton had loved from the moment Kirsty showed it to her last year was in a cup-de-sac. Wisteria vines grew around the door, and Paxton remembered thinking how wonderful it would be to walk in and out in the springtime, when the wisteria would be in full bloom. It would be like walking through a wedding arch every day. ~ Sarah Addison Allen,
850:All the shall stand about the God of glory, the fountain of love, as it were opening their bosoms to be filled with those effusions of love which are poured forth from thence, as the flowers on the earth in a pleasant spring day open their bosoms to the sun to be filled with his warmth and light, and to flourish in beauty and fragrancy by his rays. Every saint is as a flower in the garden of God, and holy love is the fragrancy and sweet odor which they all send forth, with which they fill that paradise. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
851:Aliveness, he will teach, is a gift available to all by God's grace. It flows not from taking, but giving, not from fear but from faith, not from conflict but from reconciliation, not from domination but from service. It isn't found in the upper trappings of religion -rules and rituals, controversies and scruples, temples and traditions. No, it springs up from our innermost being like a fountain of living water. It intoxicates us lie the best wine ever and so turns life from disappointment into a banquet. ~ Brian D McLaren,
852:and it goes, the music just goes, without faltering, without hesitation, not depleted through repetition, but enriched; and as it goes- without faltering, without hesitation- the rapid-rushing piece instantly becomes the soundtrack to what I am looking at, regardless of what it may be: the varied tilts of oldsters' hats, wind-gusts corduroying the park's grass, the sparkling of pram wheels, children stepping onto the water fountain's access ledge and hunchbacking behind their button-pushing hand and jutting lips; ~ Evan Dara,
853:Do you remember the sight we saw, my soul, that soft summer morning round a turning in the path, the disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones, its legs in the air like a woman in need burning its wedding poisons like a fountain with its rhythmic sobs, I could hear it clearly flowing with a long murmuring sound, but I touch my body in vain to find the wound. I am the vampire of my own heart, one of the great outcasts condemned to eternal laughter who can no longer smile. Am I dead? I must be dead. ~ Charles Baudelaire,
854:English version by Ivan M. Granger You are my true self, O Lord. My pure awareness is your consort. My breath, my body are your handmaids. I am your holy ground. My every action is an offering to you. My rest is my melting into you. Every step I take circles you. Every word I speak is a song for you. Whatever work I do, that work is worship of you, O Fountain of Bliss! [2720.jpg] -- from This Dance of Bliss: Ecstatic Poetry from Around the World, Edited by Ivan M. Granger

~ Shankara, You are my true self, O Lord
,
855:We learn much through suffering,” she said. “But I think what we learn most is who we really are. I’ve known the true you for some time, Owen. But you were like a chick struggling to escape its shell. Now you’re free to grow and become what the Fountain intended you to become. You may have thought what the Fountain forced you to endure was unpleasant, even cruel. But now you know yourself. Now you know what you would have chosen without any foreknowledge of the consequences. That’s why I couldn’t tell you, Owen. ~ Jeff Wheeler,
856:The big swan—Apollo—was within ten feet of me; he swam in open water, clear of the others; no living thing touched him. Suddenly, uttering a cry that chilled my very blood, a cry that I never heard from a swan in my life, he rose in the air, his huge wings extended—like a tortured phantom, Sime; I can never forget it—six feet clear of the water. The uncanny wail became a stifled hiss, and sending up a perfect fountain of water—I was deluged—the poor old king-swan fell, beat the surface with his wings—and was still. ~ Sax Rohmer,
857:Christ is like a river in another respect. A river is continually flowing, there are fresh supplies of water coming from the fountain-head continually, so that a man may live by it, and be supplied with water all his life. So Christ is an ever-flowing fountain; he is continually supplying his people, and the fountain is not spent. They who live upon Christ, may have fresh supplies from him to all eternity; they may have an increase of blessedness that is new, and new still, and which never will come to an end. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
858:God is the highest good of the reasonable creature, and the enjoyment of him is the only happiness with which our souls can be satisfied. To go to heaven fully to enjoy God, is infinitely better than the most pleasant accommodations here. Fathers and mothers, husbands, wives, children, or the company of earthly friends, are but shadows. But the enjoyment of God is the substance. These are but scattered beams, but God is the sun. These are but streams, but God is the fountain. These are but drops, but God is the ocean. ~ Anonymous,
859: I hang up and don’t even need to look at Joshua. I know he’s shaking his head.

After a few minutes I glance at him, and he is staring at me. Imagine it’s two minutes before the biggest interview of your life, and you look down at your white shirt. Your peacock-blue fountain pen has leaked through your pocket. Your head explodes with an obscenity and your stomach is a spike of panic over the simmering nerves. You’re an idiot and everything’s ruined. That’s the exact color of Joshua’s eyes when he looks at me. ~ Sally Thorne,
860:But there are spirits of a yet more liberal culture, to whom no simplicity is barren. There are not only stately pines, but fragile flowers, like the orchises, commonly described as too delicate for cultivation, which derive their nutriment from the crudest mass of peat. These remind us, that, not only for strength, but for beauty, the poet must, from time to time, travel the logger's path and the Indian's trail, to drink at some new and more bracing fountain of the Muses, far in the recesses of the wilderness. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
861:God is the highest good of the reasonable creature, and the enjoyment of him is the only happiness with which our souls can be satisfied. To go to heaven fully to enjoy God, is infinitely better than the most pleasant accommodations here. Fathers and mothers, husbands, wives, children, or the company of earthly friends, are but shadows. But the enjoyment of God is the substance. These are but scattered beams, but God is the sun. These are but streams, but God is the fountain. These are but drops, but God is the ocean. ~ Randy Alcorn,
862:Was that too much too fast, he asks. I thought you wanted me to, I thought that's why you came-- why did you come?

The fountain is in full flair, sending water down the terraces to froth in the lily pad pond below. From this point we can see all the way to the White House and all the buildings between, locked in place, unmoved. I came because you have showed me something inside me that I can't control, because now the world before with its rules and requirements is not enough, I want to say, but I cannot speak. ~ Uzodinma Iweala,
863:And now you ask in your heart, ‘How shall we distinguish that which is pleasurable from that which is not?’
Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower, But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee.
For to the bee, a flower is a fountain of life,
And to the flower, a bee is a messenger of love,
And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of
pleasure is a need and an ecstasy.” – Khalil Gibran ~ Brian Tracy,
864:After seventeen years of selling paper cups for Lily Tulip Cup Company and climbing to the top of the organization’s sales ladder, I saw opportunity appear in the form of an ugly, six-spindled milk shake machine called a Multimixer, and I grabbed it. It wasn’t easy to give up security and a well-paying job to strike out on my own. My wife was shocked and incredulous. But my success soon calmed her fears, and I plunged gleefully into my campaign to sell a Multimixer to every drug store soda fountain and dairy bar in the nation. ~ Ray Kroc,
865:Color
What is pink? a rose is pink
By a fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float thro'.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? Why, an orange,
Just an orange!
~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,
866:If ever there was a prime-time trigger for PTSD you couldn't do much better than this, but lucky for Norm, the crowd, America, the forty-million-plus TV viewing audience, Bravos can deal, oh yes! Pupils dilated, pulse and blood pressure through the roof, limbs trembling with stress-reflex cortisol rush, but it's cool, it's good, their shit's down tight, no Vietnam-vet crackups for Bravo squad! You can march these boys straight into sound-and-light show hell and Bravos can deal, but damn, isn't it rude to put them through it. ~ Ben Fountain,
867:As they advanced (towards the fountain) one after another of Bastian's Fastastican gifts fell away from him. The strong, handsome, fearless hero became the small, fat, timid boy.
(...)
But then he jumped into the crystal-clear water... He drank till his thrist was quenched. And joy filled him from head to foot, the joy of living and the joy of being himself. He was new born. And the best part of it was that he was now the very person he wanted to be. If he had been free to choose, he would have chosen to be no one else. ~ Michael Ende,
868:It has taken me twenty-eight years to be able to admit that I'm glad I did not know my mother until now. Not because, as my father suspected, she would ruin my life, but because this way, I did not have to bear witness as she ruined hers.
My mother's sorrow is so powerful, it cracks the clay tile beneath her feet; it makes the water in the fountain behind us overflow. "Delia," she says, as her eyes fill with tears. "I'm trying."
"Me, too." I reach for her hand: a compromise, a good-bye. Maybe this is as good as it gets. ~ Jodi Picoult,
869:Facts," murmured Basil, like one mentioning some strange, far-off animals, "how facts obscure the truth. I may be silly—in fact, I'm off my head—but I never could believe in that man—what's his name, in those capital stories?—Sherlock Holmes. Every detail points to something, certainly; but generally to the wrong thing. Facts point in all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs on a tree. It's only the life of the tree that has unity and goes up—only the green blood that springs, like a fountain, at the stars. ~ G K Chesterton,
870:Material things have closed boundaries; they are not accessible, cannot be penetrated, by things outside themselves. But one's existence as a spiritual being involves being and remaining oneself and at the same time admitting and transforming into oneself the reality of the world. No other material thing can be present in the space occupied by a house, a tree, or a fountain pen. But where there is mind, the totality of things has room; it is "possible that in a single being the comprehensiveness of the whole universe may dwell. ~ Josef Pieper,
871:Where else but America could football flourish, America with its millions of fertile acres of corn, soy, and wheat, its lakes of dairy, its year-round gushers of fruits and vegetables, and such meats, that extraordinary pipline of beef, poultry, seafood, and pork, feedlot gorged, vitamin enriched, and hypodermically immunized, humming factories of high-velocity protein production, all of which culminate after several generations of epic nutrition in this strain of industrial-sized humans? Only America could produce such giants. ~ Ben Fountain,
872:And conceiving God to be the fountain of wisdom, I thought it right and necessary to solicit his assistance for obtaining it; to this end I formed the following little prayer, which was prefix'd to my tables of examination, for daily use. "O powerful Goodness! bountiful Father! merciful Guide! increase in me that wisdom which discovers my truest interest. strengthen my resolutions to perform what that wisdom dictates. Accept my kind offices to thy other children as the only return in my power for thy continual favors to me. ~ Benjamin Franklin,
873:And rural nature is full of the same quickening spirit-it is, in fact, the exhaustless mine from which the poet and the painter have brought such wondrous treasures-an unfailing fountain of intellectual enjoyment, where all may drink, and be awakened to a deeper feeling of the works of genius, and a keener perception of the beauty of our existence. For those whose days are all consumed in the low pursuits of avarice, or the gaudy frivolities of fashion, unobservant of nature's loveliness, are unconscious of the harmony of creation ~ Thomas Cole,
874:The summer came to life. It burst from gray to fierce blue and gold in the blink of an eye; the air pealed with grasshoppers and lawnmowers, swirled with branches and bees and dandelion seeds, it was soft and sweet as whipped cream, and over the wall the wood was calling us in the loudest of silent voices, it was shaking out all its best treasures to welcome us home. Summer tossed out a fountain of ivy tendrils, caught us straight under the breastbones and tugged; summer, redeemed and unfurling in front of us, a million years long. ~ Tana French,
875:They bewailed innocence maltreated, goodness persecuted, love bleeding, meekness about to die; but my heart has a deeper and more bitter cause to mourn. My sins were the scourges which lacerated those blessed shoulders, and crowned with thorn those bleeding brows: my sins cried “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” and laid the cross upon His gracious shoulders. His being led forth to die is sorrow enough for one eternity: but my having been His murderer, is more, infinitely more, grief than one poor fountain of tears can express. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
876:For those who have never visited it, the downtown Powell’s takes up a whole city block. A giant concrete split-level sarcophagus of books. There is a ghost that haunts the water fountain. An urn of cremated remains that moves from room to room. The shelves spill books, used and new, and the aisles buzz with the kind of diversity you’ll only find at the DMV: dudes in suits and dudes in mud-caked cowboy boots, a woman with dreads and a woman with a tiara and a woman with bright blue hair. A carnival of wonders for a kid from the boonies. ~ Benjamin Percy,
877:The strange, wonderful stories of Doctor Olaf van Schuler's Brain introduce us to the tremendously gifted Kirsten Menger-Anderson, a writer whose subject is nothing less than the diagnosis and cure of the human malady. We follow twelve generations of New York City's Steenwycks family through their forays into phrenology, mesmerism, radium therapy and similar misadventures, a historically rich narrative that Menger-Anderson delivers in striking, elegant prose and with a sure eye for detail. This is a remarkable debut by a writer to watch. ~ Ben Fountain,
878:You could practically see the neurons firing in the kid’s skull. His body was all spring and torque, a bundle of fast-twitch muscles that exuded faint floral whiffs of ripe pear. So much perfection in such a compact little person — Billy had to tackle him from time to time, wrestle him squealing to the ground just to get that little rascal in his hands, just your basic adorable thirty-month old with big blue eyes clear as chlorine pools and Huggies poking out of his stretchy-waist jeans. So is this what they meant by the sanctity of life? ~ Ben Fountain,
879:Lawn Lovely is a store two blocks from our house. It’s the place where Dad buys his lawn ornaments. A lot of lawn ornaments.
Dad is as nuts about lawn ornaments as he is about gardening. We have so many lawn ornaments in our front yard, it’s impossible to mow the lawn!
What a crowd scene! We have two pink plastic flamingos. A cement angel with huge white wings. A chrome ball on a silver platform. A whole family of plaster skunks. A fountain with two kissing swans. A seal that balances a beach ball on its nose. And a chipped plaster deer. ~ R L Stine,
880:THIS IS NOT, to say the least, an appealing prospect. People naturally prefer to avoid the subject of their decrepitude. There have been dozens of bestselling books on aging, but they tend to have titles such as Younger Next Year, The Fountain of Age, Ageless, or—my favorite—The Sexy Years. Still, there are costs to averting our eyes from the realities. We put off dealing with the adaptations that we need to make as a society. And we blind ourselves to the opportunities that exist to change the individual experience of aging for the better. ~ Atul Gawande,
881:Your soul is a chosen landscape
Where charming masked and costumed figures go
Playing the lute and dancing and almost
Sad beneath their fantastic disguises.

All sing in a minor key
Of all-conquering love and careless fortune
They do not seem to believe in their happiness
And their song mingles with the moonlight.

The still moonlight, sad and beautiful,
Which gives the birds to dream in the trees
And makes the fountain sprays sob in ecstasy,
The tall, slender fountain sprays among the marble statues. ~ Paul Verlaine,
882:"Let us find the dam snack bar," Zoe said. "We should eat while we can." Grover cracked a smile. "The dam snack bar?" Zoe blinked. "Yes. What is funny?" "Nothing," Grover said, trying to keep a straight face. "I could use some dam French fries." Even Thalia smiled at that. "And I need to use the dam restroom."... I started cracking up, and Thalia and Grover joined in, while Zoe just looked at us "I do not understand." "I want to use the dam water fountain," Grover said. "And..." Thalia tried to catch her breath. "I want to buy a dam T-shirt." ~ Rick Riordan,
883:The reflection and experience of many years have led me to consider the holy writings not only as the most authentic and instructive in themselves, but as the clue to all other history. They tell us what man is, and they alone tell us why he is what he is: a contradictory creature that seeing and approving of what is good, pursues and performs what is evil. All of private and public life is there displayed. ... From the same pure fountain of wisdom we learn that vice destroys freedom; that arbitrary power is founded on public immorality. ~ Gouverneur Morris,
884:I wanted to feel like I could open my mouth and fill it with Pepper's flesh, close my teeth on her skin and tear it away, making blood pump like a fountain over everything - rug, clothes, hair, face - both Violet and I stopped in midair. Pepper's eyes had flooded with tears. It was too easy, she was enjoying this. Her body softened like a sponge waiting to soak up my punches. Her lips smiled the same way Valerie's did. It was as if I had discovered maggots in her flesh. I recoiled from her where she lay on the bed like a piece of rotting meat. ~ Mary Woronov,
885:I would stand like this, yelling directions, for what seemed like hours without a break. One time I was dying for a drink of water, and I caught his attention as he was on his way to his office. “M-Mr. Batton?” He looked at me. “Mr. Batton … could I please use the water fountain? I’m thirsty.” He came at me like a tank. “Burnett!” Lord, he’s actually talking. “Yessir?” “Don’t you ever do that again!” “What should I do?” “You snap your fingers until you get my attention, and when you do, you open your mouth and point to the back of your throat! ~ Carol Burnett,
886:Without ever exactly putting his mind to it, he's come to believe that loss is standard trajectory. Something new appears in the world—a baby, say, or a car or a house, or an individual shows some special talent—with luck and huge expenditures of soul and effort you might keep the project stoked for a while, but eventually, ultimately, it's going down. This is a truth so brutally self-evident that he can't fathom why it's not more widely perceived, hence his contempt for the usual public shock and outrage when a particular situation goes to hell. ~ Ben Fountain,
887:To the Technocrats: Have mercy on us. Relax a bit, take time out for simple pleasures. For example, the luxuries of electricity, indoor plumbing, central heating, instant electronic communication and such, have taught me to relearn and enjoy the basic human satisfactions of dipping water from a cold clear mountain stream; of building a wood fire in a cast-iron stove; of using long winter nights for making music, making things, making love; of writing long letters, in longhand with a fountain pen, to the few people on this earth I truly care about. ~ Edward Abbey,
888:O virgin mother, daughter of thy Son,
humble beyond all creatures and more exalted;
predestined turning point of God's intention;

Thy merit so ennobled human nature
that its divine Creator did not scorn
to make Himself the creature of His creature.

The Love that was rekindled in Thy womb
sends for the warmth of the eternal peace
within whose ray this flower has come to bloom.

Here to us, thou art the noon and scope
of Love revealed; and among mortal men,
the living fountain of eternal hope. ~ Dante Alighieri,
889:Do you remember the sight we saw, my soul,
that soft summer morning
round a turning in the path,
the disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones,
its legs in the air like a woman in need
burning its wedding poisons
like a fountain with its rhythmic sobs,
I could hear it clearly flowing with a long murmuring sound,
but I touch my body in vain to find the wound.
I am the vampire of my own heart,
one of the great outcasts condemned to eternal laughter
who can no longer smile.
Am I dead?
I must be dead. ~ Charles Baudelaire,
890:the pursuit of our soul's satisfaction--our joy and delight and happiness--is not sin. Sin is the exact opposite: pursuing happiness where no lasting happiness can be found. "My people have committed two evils: they have forsaken me, the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for themselves, broken cisterns, that can hold no water" (Jer. 2:13, RSV). Sin is trying to quench our unquenchable soul-thirst anywhere but in God. Or, more subtly, sin is pursuing satisfaction in the right direction, but with lukewarm, halfhearted affections (Rev. 3:16). ~ John Piper,
891:Mexico admits you through an arched stone orifice into the tree-filled courtyard of its heart, where a dog pisses against a wall and a waiter hustles through a curtain of jasmine to bring a bowl of tortilla soup, steaming with cilantro and lime. Cats stalk lizards among the clay pots around the fountain, doves settle into the flowering vines and coo their prayers, thankful for the existence of lizards. The potted plants silently exhale, outgrowing their clay pots. Like Mexico's children they stand pinched and patient in last year's too-small shoes. ~ Barbara Kingsolver,
892:So the “continual thirst for fresh communications from the Fountain of life”—Christ himself—is at the heart of Christian life.44 “The hidden life of a Christian, as it consists in communion with God by Jesus Christ,” Newton says, is “a continual dependence on him for hourly supplies of wisdom, strength, and comfort.”45 The Christian life flows from hourly communion with Christ because “the more you know him, the better you will trust him; the more you trust him, the better you will love him; the more you love him, the better you will serve him.”46 But how ~ Tony Reinke,
893:That winter was a particularly tough one for the paper cup business. Everything slowed down except for the hospital and medical clinic sales, and I didn’t have any of those places for customers. I didn’t do very well, because I thought of the customer first. I didn’t try to force an order on a soda fountain operator when I could see that his business had fallen off because of cold weather and he didn’t need the damn cups. My philosophy was one of helping my customer, and if I couldn’t sell him by helping him improve his own sales, I felt I wasn’t doing my job. ~ Ray Kroc,
894:Bears are made of the same dust as we, and they breathe the same winds and drink of the same waters. A bear's days are warmed by the same sun, his dwellings are overdomed by the same blue sky, and his life turns and ebbs with heart pulsing like ours. He was poured from the same first fountain. And whether he at last goes to our stingy Heaven or not, he has terrestrial immortality. His life, not long, not short, knows no beginning , no ending. To him life unstinted, unplanned, is above the accidents of time, and his years, markless and boundless, equal eternity. ~ John Muir,
895:Jonathan Edwards said in a 1733 sermon, “God is the highest good of the reasonable creature, and the enjoyment of him is the only happiness with which our souls can be satisfied. To go to heaven fully to enjoy God, is infinitely better than the most pleasant accommodations here. Fathers and mothers, husbands, wives, children, or the company of earthly friends, are but shadows. But the enjoyment of God is the substance. These are but scattered beams, but God is the sun. These are but streams, but God is the fountain. These are but drops, but God is the ocean. ~ Randy Alcorn,
896:Thou art the supreme light, and the eyes of the pure soul shall see Thee, and clouds of sin shall hide Thee from the eyes of sinners. Thou art the light hidden in this world and revealed in the world of beauty, "In the mount of the Lord it shall be seen." Thou art the eternal light, and the inward eye yearns for Thee and is astonished -- she shall see but the utmost part of them, and shall not see them all. [1568.jpg] -- from The Heart and the Fountain: An Anthology of Jewish Mystical Experiences, by Joseph Dan

~ Solomon ibn Gabirol, Thou art the Supreme Light
,
897:The Men’s Central Jail is an anonymous building behind Central Station, less than ten minutes from the Criminal Courts Building in downtown L.A. I parked in a neat, modern underground parking structure, then walked up steps to a very nice plaza. Nicely dressed people were sipping lattes and strolling about the plaza, and no one seemed to mind that the plaza adjoined a place housing felons and gangbangers and the wild men of an otherwise civil society. Perhaps because this is L.A. and the jail is so nice. There’s a fountain in the plaza, and it’s very nice, too. ~ Robert Crais,
898:GOOD MORNING," said the little prince. "Good Morning," said the salesclerk. This was a salesclerk who sold pills invented to quench thirst. Swallow one a week and you no longer feel any need to drink. "Why do you sell these pills?" "They save so much time," the salesclerk said. "Experts have calculated that you can save fifty-three minutes a week." "And what do you do with those fifty-three minutes?" "Whatever you like." "If I had fifty-three minutes to spend as I liked," the little prince said to himself, "I'd walk very slowly toward a water fountain. ~ Antoine de Saint Exupery,
899:Let us find the dam snack bar," Zoe said. "We should eat while we can."
Grover cracked a smile. "The dam snack bar?"
Zoe blinked. "Yes. What is funny?"
"Nothing," Grover said, trying to keep a straight face. "I could use some dam french fries."
Even Thalia smiled at that. "And I need to use the dam restroom."
...
I started cracking up, and Thalia and Grover joined in, while Zoe just looked at me. "I do not understand."
"I want to use the dam water fountain," Grover said.
"And..." Thalia tried to catch her breath. "I want to buy a dam t-shirt. ~ Rick Riordan,
900:Friend of fatherless! Fountain of happiness! Lord of the swill-bucket! Oh, how my soul is on Fire when I gaze at thy Calm and commanding eye. Like the sun in the sky, Comrade Napoleon! Thou are the giver of All thy creatures love, Full belly twice a day, clean straw to roll upon; Every beast great or small, Sleeps at peace in his stall, Thou watchest over all, Comrade Napoleon! Had I a sucking-pig, Ere he had grown as big Even as a pint bottle or a a rolling-pin He should have learned to be Faithful and true to thee, Yes, his first squeak should be Comrade Napoleon! ~ George Orwell,
901:Stuyvesants and Vanderbilts and Roosevelts and staid, respectable Washington Square. Trinity Church. Mrs. Astor’s famous ballroom, the Four Hundred, snobby Ward McAllister, that traitor Edith Wharton, Delmonico’s. Zany Zelda and Scott in the Plaza fountain, the Algonquin Round Table, Dottie Parker and her razor tongue and pen, the Follies. Cholly Knickerbocker, 21, Lucky Strike dances at the Stork, El Morocco. The incomparable Hildegarde playing the Persian Room at the Plaza, Cary Grant kneeling at her feet in awe. Fifth Avenue: Henri Bendel, Bergdorf’s, Tiffany’s. ~ Melanie Benjamin,
902:God is the highest good of the reasonable creature. The enjoyment of him is our proper; and is the only happiness with which our souls can be satisfied. To go to heaven, fully to enjoy God, is infinitely better than the most pleasant accommodations here. Better than fathers and mothers, husbands, wives, or children, or the company of any, or all earthly friends. These are but shadows; but the enjoyment of God is the substance. These are but scattered beams; but God is the sun. These are but streams; but God is the fountain. These are but drops, but God is the ocean. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
903:I never thought I'd get to see Rome," Hazel said. "When I was alive, I mean for the first time, Mussolini was in charge. We were at war." "Mussolini?" Leo frowned. "Wasn't he like BFF's with Hitler?" Hazel stared at him like he was an alien. "BFF's?" "Never mind." "I'd love to see the Trevi Fountain," she said. "There's a fountain on every block," Leo grumbled. "Or the Spanish Steps," Hazel said. "Why would you come to Italy to see Spanosh steps?" Leo asked. "That's like going to China for Mexican food, isn't it?" "You're hopeless," Hazel complained. "So I've been told. ~ Rick Riordan,
904:The water wasn't the same down here.

Water is what runs out of the kitchen taps or a playground drinking fountain. It fills bathubs and pools and yes, of course, the ocean- but at a certain depth, water becomes a barrier from all you remember, all you think you know.

You're trapped within it, a plaything of it.

Focus erodes. Your thoughts mutate. The pressure.

The pressure.

The soul can't cope with that. It shouldn't be expected to.

Humans weren't built for this. There's a reason nothing lives down here.

Or nothing should. ~ Nick Cutter,
905:And now you ask in your heart, ‘How shall we distinguish that which is good in pleasure from that which is not good?’ Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower, But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee. For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life, And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love, And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy. * People of Orphalese, be in your pleasures like the flowers and the bees. ~ Khalil Gibran,
906:I know that the Immovable comes down; I know that the Invisible appears to me; I know that he who is far outside the whole creation Takes me within himself and hides me in his arms, And then I find myself outside the whole world. I, a frail, small mortal in the world, Behold the Creator of the world, all of him, within myself; And I know that I shall not die, for I am within the Life, I have the whole of Life springing up as a fountain within me. He is in my heart, he is in heaven: Both there and here he shows himself to me with equal glory.22 St Symeon the New Theologian ~ Kallistos Ware,
907:Because God is not only infinitely greater and more excellent than all other being, but he is the head of the universal system of existence; the foundation and fountain of all being and all beauty; from whom all is perfectly derived, and on whom all is most absolutely and perfectly dependent; of whom, and through whom, and to whom is all being and all perfection; and whose being and beauty are, as it were, the sum and comprehension of all existence and excellence: much more than the sun is the fountain and summary comprehension of all the light and brightness of the day. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
908:When your soul is pricked by compunction and gradually changed, it becomes a fountain flowing with rivers of tears and compunction. ... If any one of you ever happens to communicate with tears, whether you weep before the Liturgy or in the course of the divine Liturgy, or at the very time that you receive the divine Gifts, and does not desire to do this for the rest of his days and nights, it will avail him nothing to have wept merely once. It is not this alone that at once purifies us and makes us worthy; it is daily compunction that does not cease until death. ~ Symeon the New Theologian,
909:In Rome, I really wanted an Audrey Hepburn Roman Holiday experience, but the Trevi Fountain was crowded, there was a McDonald's at the base of the Spanish Steps, and the ruins smelled like cat pee because of all the strays. The same thing happened in Prague, where I'd been yearning for some of the bohemianism of The Unbearable Lightness of Being. But no, there were no fabulous artists, no guys who looked remotely like a young Daniel Day-Lewis. I saw this one mysterious-looking guy reading Sartre in a cafe, but then his cell phone rang and he started talking in aloud Texan twang. ~ Gayle Forman,
910:He checked out his surrounding. More books. A drinking fountain. A poster showing a guy slam-dunking a basketball with one hand and holding a book in the other, urging kids to READ! Weird, thought Steve. How can he even see the hoop?

...

You see, Steven, Librarians are the most elite, best trained secret force in the United States of America. Probably in the world."
"No way."
"Yes way."
"What about the FBI?"
"Featherweights."
"The CIA?"
Mackintosh snorted. "Don't make me laugh. Those guys can't even dunk a basketball andd read a book at the same time. ~ Mac Barnett,
911:thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck, thy lips drop as the honeycomb, honey and milk are under thy tongue, the smell of thy breath is of apples, thy two breasts are clusters of grapes, thy palate a heady wine that goes straight to my love and flows over my lips and teeth…. A fountain sealed, spikenard and saffron, calamus and cinnamon, myrrh and aloes, I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey, I have drunk my wine with my milk. Who was she, who was she who rose like the dawn, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army with banners? ~ Umberto Eco,
912:[It was at the fountain where I washed my curls]
It was at the fountain where I washed my curls,
Mother, and where I did loosen them
and me
oh lucent
It was at the spring where I rinsed my locks
Mother, and where I did loosen them
and me
Lucent
At the fountain where I did loosen my curls
there I knew — Mother — one to lord over them.
and me
Lucent oh
Before I from that place departed
Loosened was I in the words he d told me
and me
oh oh [lucent
[652] #689
Don Joham Soarez Coelho
« and so I did appease them »
~ Erin Mouré,
913:If you want to get warm you must stand near the fire: if you want to be wet you must get into the water. If you want joy, power, peace, eternal life, you must get close to, or even into, the thing that has them. They are not a sort of prize which God could, if He chose, hand out to anyone. They are a great fountain of energy and beauty spurting up at the very centre of reality. If you are close to it, the spray will wet you: if you are not,, you will remian dry. Once a man is united to God, how could he not live forever? Once a man is separated from God, what can he do but wither and die. ~ C S Lewis,
914:For lunch, Tsipis led them to Hassadar’s most exclusive locale—the official dining room of the Count’s Residence, overlooking the Square. The remarkable spread which the staff laid on hinted that Miles had sent down a few urgent behind-the-scenes instructions for the care and feeding of his . . . gardener. Mark confirmed this after dessert when Kareen led Enrique and the widow off to see the garden and fountain in the Residence’s inner courtyard, and he and Tsipis lingered over the exquisite vintage of Vorkosigan estate-bottled wine usually reserved for visits from Emperor Gregor. ~ Lois McMaster Bujold,
915:Aunty Ifeoma came the next day, in the evening, when the orange trees started to cast long, wavy shadows across the water fountain in the front yard. Her laughter floated upstairs into the living room, where I sat reading. I had not heard it in two years, but I would know that cackling, hearty sound anywhere. Aunty Ifeoma was as tall as Papa, with a well-proportioned body. She walked fast, like one who knew just where she was going and what she was going to do there. And she spoke the way she walked, as if to get as many words out of her mouth as she could in the shortest time. ~ Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie,
916:And then there will be the times when I see you laughing. Like the time you’ll be playing with the neighbor’s puppy, poking your hands through the chain-link fence separating our back yards, and you’ll be laughing so hard you’ll start hiccupping. The puppy will run inside the neighbor’s house, and your laughter will gradually subside, letting you catch your breath. Then the puppy will come back to the fence to lick your fingers again, and you’ll shriek and start laughing again. It will be the most wonderful sound I could ever imagine, a sound that makes me feel like a fountain, or a wellspring. ~ Ted Chiang,
917:And you, Ringbearer' she said, turning to Frodo. 'I come to you last who are not last in my thoughts. For you I have prepared this.' She held up a small crystal phial: it glittered as she moved it and rays of white light sprang from her hand. 'In this phial,' she said,' is caught the light of Earendil's star, set amid the waters of my fountain. It will shine still brighter when night is about you. May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out. Frodo took the phial, and for a moment as it shone between them, he saw her again standing like a queen, great and beautiful. ~ J R R Tolkien,
918:How soft and gentle her name sounds when I whisper it. It lingers on the tongue, insidious and slow, almost like poison, which is apt indeed. It passes from the tongue to the parched lips, and from the lips back to the heart. And the heart controls the body, and the mind also. Shall I be free of it one day? In forty, in fifty years? Or will some lingering trace of matter in the brain stay pallid and diseased? Some minuscule cell in the bloodstream fail to race with its fellows to the fountain heart? Perhaps, when all is said and done, I shall have no wish to be free. As yet, I cannot tell. ~ Daphne du Maurier,
919:I never thought I'd get to see Rome," Hazel said. "When I was alive, I mean for the first time, Mussolini was in charge. We were at war."
"Mussolini?" Leo frowned. "Wasn't he like BFF's with Hitler?"
Hazel stared at him like he was an alien. "BFF's?"
"Never mind."
"I'd love to see the Trevi Fountain," she said.
"There's a fountain on every block," Leo grumbled.
"Or the Spanish Steps," Hazel said.
"Why would you come to Italy to see Spanosh steps?" Leo asked. "That's like going to China for Mexican food, isn't it?"
"You're hopeless," Hazel complained.
"So I've been told. ~ Rick Riordan,
920:[Norm said,] 'To all those who argue this war is a mistake, I'd like to point out that we've removed from power one of history's most ruthless and belligerent tyrants. A man who cold-bloodedly murdered thousands of his own people. Who built palaces for his personal pleasure while schools decayed and his country's health care system collapsed. Who maintained one of the world's most expensive armies while he allowed his nation's infrastructure to crumble. Who channeled resources to his cronies and political allies, allowing them to siphon off much of the country's wealth for their own personal gain. ~ Ben Fountain,
921:He watched the early light of the new moon glint fretfully on the river, now silver slivers, now darkness, as the night breeze stirred the choked growth on the banks and lifted the tree branches. The watersteps were a deserted invitation, and he envied Hori who must surely even now be reclining on the bottom of his skiff, Antef beside him, their fishing lines tied to the boat whilst they watched the stars and gossiped. His fountain tinkled like music in the darkness, and the monkeys sighed and snuffled in their favourite warm spot under the stone basin, which still held the warmth of the day’s heat. ~ Pauline Gedge,
922:There was a little sketch pad with a pink paper cover, a packet of handwritten notes in what looked like my grandmother's handwriting, a silk scarf of water lilies on a blue background, a black fountain pen with an ornate silver hand on it, a book of poems by American poets with a number of pages dog-eared (I made a mental note to see if "Mending Wall" was in there), a magnifying glass with a carved wooden handle, a book called 'Native Flowers of New England' with a ragged cloth binding, another clothbound book called the 'Berry Farmer's Companion', and a stack of twenty faded black-and-white photographs. ~ Mary Simses,
923:Were government a mere manufacture or article of commerce, immaterial by whom it should be made or sold, we might as well employ her as another, but when we consider it as the fountain from whence the general manners and morality of a country take their rise, that the persons entrusted with the execution thereof are by their serious example an authority to support these principles, how abominably absurd is the idea of being hereafter governed by a set of men who have been guilty of forgery, perjury, treachery, theft and every species of villainy which the lowest wretches on earth could practice or invent. ~ Thomas Paine,
924:Sleeping On The Ceiling
It is so peaceful on the ceiling!
It is the Place de la Concorde.
The little crystal chandelier
is off, the fountain is in the dark.
Not a soul is in the park.
Below, where the wallpaper is peeling,
the Jardin des Plantes has locked its gates.
Those photographs are animals.
The mighty flowers and foliage rustle;
under the leaves the insects tunnel.
We must go under the wallpaper
to meet the insect-gladiator,
to battle with a net and trident,
and leave the fountain and the square
But oh, that we could sleep up there...
~ Elizabeth Bishop,
925:Health is normal. The human body is a self-repairing, self-defending, self-healing marvel. Disease is relatively difficult to induce, considering the body's powerful immune system. However, this complicated and delicate machinery can be damaged if fed the wrong fuel during the formative years. ... Healthy living with nutritional excellence throughout life can slow the decline of aging. It can prevent the years and years of suffering in ill health that is so common today as people get older and become dependent on medical treatments, drugs, and surgery. Nutritional excellence is the only real fountain of youth. ~ Joel Fuhrman,
926:Why is there so much disturbance, so much fighting and quarrelling in the name of God? There has been more bloodshed in the name of God than for any other cause, because people never went to the fountain-head; they were content only to give a mental assent to the customs of their forefathers, and wanted others to do the same. What right has a man to say he has a soul if he does not feel it, or that there is a God if he does not see Him? If there is a God we must see Him, if there is a soul we must perceive it; otherwise it is better not to believe. It is better to be an outspoken atheist than a hypocrite. ~ Swami Vivekananda,
927:Let us find the dam snack bar,” Zoë said. “We should eat while we can.” Grover cracked a smile. “The dam snack bar?” Zoë blinked. “Yes. What is funny?” “Nothing,” Grover said, trying to keep a straight face. “I could use some dam french fries.” Even Thalia smiled at that. “And I need to use the dam restroom.” Maybe it was the fact that we were so tired and strung out emotionally, but I started cracking up, and Thalia and Grover joined in, while Zoë just looked at us. “I do not understand.” “I want to use the dam water fountain,” Grover said. “And…” Thalia tried to catch her breath. “I want to buy a dam T-shirt. ~ Rick Riordan,
928:And Billy, if it'll ease your mind any, I want you to know you've got a standing offer to come work for me when you're done with your military service. All you've got to do is say the word.'
Now there was a depressing thought, although Billy could see how it might come to that, assuming best-case scenario he made it home with all his limbs and faculties in tact. He'd go to work for Whalers hauling oil-field pipe and blowout protectors all over the wind-scrappled barrens of Central Texas, busting his ass for slightly more than minimum wage and shitty benefits.
'Thank you, sir. I may be taking you up on that. ~ Ben Fountain,
929:Men In The Rough
Men in the rough--on the trails all new-broken-Those are the friends we remember with tears;
Few are the words that such comrades have spoken-Deeds are their tributes that last through the years.
Men in the rough--sons of prairie and mountain-Children of nature, warm-hearted, clear eyed;
Friendship with them is a never-sealed fountain;
Strangers are they to the altars of pride.
Men in the rough--curt of speech to their fellows-Ready in everything, save to deceive;
Theirs are the friendships that time only mellows,
And death cannot sever the bonds that they weave.
~ Arthur Chapman,
930:I am the twentieth century. I am the ragtime and the tango; sans-serif, clean geometry. I am the virgin's-hair whip and the cunningly detailed shackles of decadent passion. I am every lonely railway station in every capital of Europe. I am the Street, the fanciless buildings of government. the cafe-dansant, the clockwork figure, the jazz saxophone, the tourist-lady's hairpiece, the fairy's rubber breasts, the travelling clock which always tells the wrong time and chimes in different keys. I am the dead palm tree, the Negro's dancing pumps, the dried fountain after tourist season. I am all the appurtenances of night. ~ Thomas Pynchon,
931:Not town can live peacefully, whatever its laws," Plato wrote, "when its citizens ... do nothing but feast and drink and tire themselves out in the cares of love."
But is it such a bad thing to live like this for just a little while? Just for a few months of one's life, is it so awful to travel through time with no greater ambition than to find the next lovely meal? Or to learn how to speak a language for no higher purpose than that it pleases your ear to hear it? Or to nap in a garden, in a patch of sunlight, in the middle of the day, right next to your favorite fountain? And then to do it again the next day? ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
932:Song
Venus.
Frosty lies the winter-landscape,
In the twilight golden-green.
Down the Park's deserted alleys,
Naked elms stand stark and lean.
Dumb the murmur of the fountain,
Birds have flown from lawn and hill.
But while yonder star's ascendant,
Love triumphal reigneth still.
See the keen flame throb and tremble,
Brightening in the darkening night,
Breathing like a thing of passion,
In the sky's smooth chrysolite.
Not beneath the moon, oh lover,
Thou shalt gain thy heart's desire.
Speak to-night! The gods are with thee
Burning with a kindred fire.
~ Emma Lazarus,
933:This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee. ~ T S Eliot,
934:He decides he wants both more and less. He’d like to hang out with Beyonce in a nice way, get to know her by doing small pleasant things like going out for icecream, or how about this, a three-week trial run in some tropical paradise where they can hang together in that nice way and possibly fall in love, and meanwhile fuck each other’s brains out in their spare time. He wants both, he wants the entire body-soul connect because anything less is just demeaning. Has the war done this to him, he wonders, inspired by these deeper sensitivities and yearnings of his? Or is it just because he’s going on his twentieth year of life? ~ Ben Fountain,
935:Out of the woman's great brown breast the milk gushed forth for the child, milk as white as snow, and when the child suckled at the one breast it flowed like a fountain from the other, ans she let it flow. There was more than enough for the child, greedy though he was, life enough for many children, and she let it flow out carelessly, conscious of her abundance. There was always more. Sometimes she lifted her breast and let it flow out upon the ground to save her clothing, and it sank into the earth and made a soft, dark, rich spot in the field. The child fat and good-natured and ate of the inexhaustible life his mother gave him. ~ Pearl S Buck,
936:It is customary to blame secular science and anti-religious philosophy for the eclipse of religion in modern society. It would be more honest to blame religion for its own defeats. Religion declined not because it was refuted, but because it became irrelevant, dull, oppressive, insipid. When faith is completely replaced by creed, worship by discipline, love by habit; when the crisis of today is ignored because of the splendor of the past; when faith becomes an heirloom rather than a living fountain; when religion speaks only in the name of authority rather than with the voice of compassion--its message becomes meaningless. ~ Abraham Joshua Heschel,
937:This fountain commemorates Luxembourg’s two national poets—Lentz and Dicks,’” Jeffrey reads. “That had to be a tough name to get through school with.” I scowl slightly as Jeffrey reads on. “Mr. Lentz wrote the national motto. ‘Mir wëlle bleiwe wat mir sin’ . . . ‘We wish to remain what we are.’” It really explains this strange place, I think, as Jeffrey considers the fountain. The gargoyles, the old men, the cobblestones. Maybe it’s trying with all its might not to change in any way. Maybe Luxembourg is stuck, just like us." (from "The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards: A Novel (Ala Notable Books for Adults)" by Kristopher Jansma) ~ Kristopher Jansma,
938:There are many moral principles, just as many drops fall from one fountain; but there is one stream that is at the source of all, and that is love. It is love that gives birth to hope, patience, endurance, forgiveness, tolerance, and to all moral principles. All deeds of kindness and beneficence take root in the soil of the loving heart. Generosity, charity, adaptability, an accommodating nature, even renunciation, are the offspring of love alone. The great, rare and chosen beings, who for ages have been looked up to as ideal in the world, are the possessors of hearts kindled with love. All evil and sin come from the lack of love. ~ Hazrat Inayat Khan,
939:Ian once suggested that in addition to the mystery stickers and the sci-fi and animal ones, there should be special stickers for books with happy endings, books with sad endings, books that will trick you into reading the next in the series. 'There should be ones with big teardrops,' he said, 'like for the side of Where the Red Fern Grows. Because otherwise it isn't fair. Like maybe you're accidentally reading it in public, and then everyone will make fun of you for crying.' But what could I affix to the marvelous and perplexing tale of Ian Drake? A little blue sticker with a question mark, maybe. Crossed fingers. A penny in a fountain. ~ Rebecca Makkai,
940:Thirst
My spirit wails for water, water now!
My tongue is aching dry, my throat is hot
For water, fresh rain shaken from a bough,
Or dawn dews heavy in some leafy spot.
My hungry body's burning for a swim
In sunlit water where the air is cool,
As in Trout Valley where upon a limb
The golden finch sings sweetly to the pool.
Oh water, water, when the night is done,
When day steals gray-white through the windowpane,
Clear silver water when I wake, alone,
All impotent of parts, of fevered brain;
Pure water from a forest fountain first,
To wash me, cleanse me, and to quench my thirst!
~ Claude McKay,
941:My family sat in their pool courtyard," Harah said, "in air bathed by the moisture that arose from the spray of a fountain. There was a tree of portyguls, round and deep in color, near at hand. There was a basket with mish mish and baklawa and mugs of liban—all manner of good things to eat. In our gardens and, in our flocks, there was peace . . . peace in all the land."

"Life was full with happiness until the raiders came," Alia said.

"Blood ran cold at the scream of friends," Jessica said. And she felt the memories rushing through her out of all those other pasts she shared.

"La, la, la, the women cried," said Harah. ~ Frank Herbert,
942:Then suddenly he was aware of a man clothed in white who watched him through the falling water of the fountain.
As their eyes met, a bird sang aloud in the branches of the tree. In that moment Ged understood the singing of the bird, and the language of the water falling in the basin of the fountain, and the shape of the clouds, and the beginning and end of the wind that stirred the leaves: it seemed to him that he himself was a word spoken by the sunlight.
Then that moment passed, and he and the world were as before, or almost as before. He went forward to kneel before the Archmage, holding out to him the letter written by Ogion. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,
943:Don’t talk about shit you don’t know, Billy thinks, and therein lies the dynamic of all such encounters, the Bravos speak from the high ground of experience. They are authentic. They are the Real. They have dealt much death and received much death and smelled it and held it and slopped through it in their boots, had it spattered on their clothes and tasted it in their mouths. That is their advantage, and given the masculine standard America has set for itself it is interesting how few actually qualify. Why we fight, yo, who is this we? Here in the chicken-hawk nation of blowhards and bluffers, Bravo always has the ace of bloods up its sleeve. ~ Ben Fountain,
944:The father had long ago taken up his bundle and hidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball—when the one woman who had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule, time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all things ran their course. ~ Charles Dickens,
945:I.
The rose that drinks the fountain dew
In the pleasant air of noon,
Grows pale and blue with altered hue
In the gaze of the nightly moon;
For the planet of frost, so cold and bright
Makes it wan with her borrowed light.

II.
Such is my heartroses are fair,
And that at best a withered blossom;
But thy false care did idly wear
Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom;
And fed with love, like air and dew,
Its growth----
Dated 1817 by Mrs. Shelley, and printed by her in the Poetical Works, 1839, 1st edition. A copy exists amongst the Shelley manuscripts at the Bodleian.
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, To Constantia
,
946:You see someone more interesting than me?" asked Simon. In the dream he was mysteriously an expert dance. He steered her through the crowd as if she were a leaf caught in a river current. He was wearing all black, like a shadow hunter, and it showed his coloring to a good advantage: dark hair, lighted brown skin,white teeth. He's handsome, Clary thought, with a jolt of surprise. "There's no one more interesting than you," Clary said. "It's just this place. I've never seen anything like it." She turned again as they passed a champagne fountain... She was now dancing with Jace, who was wearing white, the material of his shirt a thin cotton... ~ Cassandra Clare,
947:But aren’t all great quests folly? El Dorado and the Fountain of Youth and the search for intelligent life in the cosmos—we know what’s out there. It’s what isn’t that truly compels us. Technology may have shrunk the epic journey to a couple of short car rides and regional jet legs—four states and twelve hundred miles traversed in an afternoon—but true quests aren’t measured in time or distance anyway, so much as in hope. There are only two good outcomes for a quest like this, the hope of the serendipitous savant—sail for Asia and stumble on America—and the hope of scarecrows and tin men: that you find out you had the thing you sought all along. ~ Jess Walter,
948:But I'm touched that you care. One moment, princeling," he called to Ash, who inclined his head. Taking my wrist, Puck steered me behind the fountain and bent close, his breath warm on my face.
"I have to do this, princess," he said firmly. "Ash won't let us go without a fight, and this has been coming for a long time now." For a moment, a shadow of regret flickered across his face, but then it was gone.
"So," he murmured, grinning as he tilted my chin up, "before I march off to battle, how 'bout a kiss for luck?"
I hesitated, wondering why now, of all times, he would ask for a kiss. He certainly didn't think of me in that way... did he? ~ Julie Kagawa,
949:Jaime Rivera gaped in disbelief as the cadreman took at least five direct hits and didn't go down. And then the trooper who should have been dead was coming straight at him, pistol in one hand and some sort of sword in the other.

The pistol came up, and Rivera recoiled as the first penetrator spalled his visor. It didn't punch through, but the incredible impact, less than ten centimeters in front of his eyes half-stunned him. It was only for an instant, no more than a single heartbeat, but that was long enough.

His vision had just begun to refocus when the force blade in Alicia DeVries' right hand decapitated him in a fountain of blood. ~ David Weber,
950:...true death, my friend and counselor, who was never again going to allow me to act like such a coward...He was not going to allow me to put off until tomorrow what I should be enjoying today. He was not going to let me flee from life's battles, and he was going to help me fight the good fight. Never again, ever, was I going to feel ridiculous about doing anything. Because he was there, saying that when he took me in hand to travel with me to other worlds, I should leave behind the greatest sin of all: regret. With the certainty of his presence and the gentleness of his face, I was sure that I was going to be able to drink from the fountain of life. ~ Paulo Coelho,
951:Ellingham was splendid in the sunshine. That was the only word for it. The light fell like rain in droplets that hung in the air. A cloud of them surrounded the fountain that gushed merrily on the green, creating its own ecosystem of rainbows. The light found every nook and crook of the bright redbrick buildings. It made the gargoyles seem to smile. It deepened the green of the trees. It made the statues - well, it didn't do anything to the statues except reveal just how many of them there were.
"Do you think these get less creepy with time?" Nate asked as they passed yet another cluster of naked Greeks or Romans.
"I hope not," Stevie replied. ~ Maureen Johnson,
952:Then they began saying, "Get hold of him. Put him in Mercury." Now as you know I have two sculptures by Brancusi and several pretty things and I did not want them to start getting rough, so I said, pacifically, "Dear sweet clodhoppers, if you knew anything of sexual psychology you would know that nothing could give me keener pleasure than to be manhandled by you meaty boys. It would be an ecstasy of the very naughtiest kind. So if any of you wishes to be my partner in joy come and seize me. If, on the other hand, you simply wish to satisfy some obscure and less easily classified libido and see me bathe, come with me quietly, dear louts, to the fountain. ~ Evelyn Waugh,
953:Most of all, there had been a time when honor meant something at the Colgan School, when school property was respected, when the faculty was revered—when the headmaster’s mint-condition 1958 Porsche Speedster would
never have been placed on top of the fountain in the quad with water shooting out of its headlights on an unusually warm evening in November. There had been a time when the girl responsible—the very one who had
lucked into that last-minute vacancy only a few months before—would have had the decency to admit what she’d done and quietly taken her leave of the school. But unfortunately, that era, much like the headmaster’s car, was finished. ~ Ally Carter,
954:The two armies separated; and we are told that Pyrrhus said to one who was congratulating him on his victory, “If we are victorious in one more battle with the Romans, we shall be utterly ruined.” 10 For he had lost a great part of the forces with which he came, and all his friends and generals except a few; moreover, he had no others whom he could summon from home, and he saw that his allies in Italy were becoming indifferent, while the army of the Romans, as if from a fountain gushing forth indoors, was easily and speedily filled up again, and they did not lose courage in defeat, nay, their wrath gave them all the more vigour and determination for the war. ~ Plutarch,
955:Because those things that are appointed of God as means are not used by them in their due place and order, — such as are praying, fasting, watching, meditation, and the like. These have their use in the business in hand; but whereas they are all to be looked on as streams, they look on them as the fountain. Whereas they effect and accomplish the end as means only, subordinate to the Spirit and faith, they look on them to do it by virtue of the work wrought. If they fast so much, and pray so much, and keep their hours and times, the work is done. As the apostle says of some in another case, “They are always learning, never coming to the knowledge of the truth; ~ John Owen,
956:whole realm was his. He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge's sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge's daughters, on long twilight or early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the Judge's feet before the roaring library fire; he carried the Judge's grandsons on his back, or rolled them in the grass, and guarded their footsteps through wild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard, and even beyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry patches. Among the terriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel he utterly ignored, for he was king,—king over all creeping, crawling, flying things of Judge Miller's ~ Jack London,
957:The gospel gives it all. Justification for our guilt. Sanctification for deconstructing our false ideals. Adoption for the red face of our secret shame. And suddenly, in place of the raw emotions that continually joined forces against us, knocking us around like a nickel in a clothes dryer, the sun can now rise in the morning on a truly perfect storm, as God’s grace feeds in us a new passion for Him, and passion responds by feeding us even more grace—a revitalizing shower where the only water seeping into our hearts is from the fountain of living waters, replenishing our once-guilty, once-shameful hearts with sheer joy, acceptance, and freedom. Let it rain. ~ Matt Chandler,
958: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,
959:But aren't all great quests folly? El Dorado and the Fountain of Youth and the search for intelligent life in the cosmos-- we know what's out there. It's what isn't that truly compels us. Technology may have shrunk the epic journey to a couple of short car rides and regional jet lags-- four states and twelve hundred miles traversed in an afternoon-- but true quests aren't measured in time or distance anyway, so much as in hope. There are only two good outcomes for a quest like this, the hope of the serendipitous savant-- sail for Asia and stumble on America-- and the hope of scarecrows and tin men: that you find out you had the thing you sought all along. ~ Jess Walter,
960:Let us find the dam snack bar,” Zoë said. “We should eat while we can.” Grover cracked a smile. “The dam snack bar?” Zoë blinked. “Yes. What is funny?” “Nothing,” Grover said, trying to keep a straight face. “I could use some dam french fries.” Even Thalia smiled at that. “And I need to use the dam restroom.” Maybe it was the fact that we were so tired and strung out emotionally, but I started cracking up, and Thalia and Grover joined in, while Zoë just looked at us. “I do not understand.” “I want to use the dam water fountain,” Grover said. “And…” Thalia tried to catch her breath. “I want to buy a dam T-shirt.” I busted up, and I probably would’ve kept laughing all ~ Rick Riordan,
961:I did everything wrong," he said. "I misunderstood everything. Moon Child gave me so much, and all I did with it was harm, harm to myself and harm to Fantastica."

Dame Eyola gave him a long look.

No," she said. "I don't believe so. You went the way of wishes, and that is never straight. You went the long way around, but that was your way. And do you know why? Because you are one of those who can't go back until they have found the fountain from which springs the Water of Life. And that's the most secret place in Fantastica. There's no simple way of getting there."

After a short silence she added: "But every way that leads there is the right one. ~ Michael Ende,
962:When we see the face of God we shall know that we have always known it. He has been a party to, has made, sustained and moved moment by moment within, all our earthly experiences of innocent love. All that was true love in them was, even on earth, far more His than ours, and ours only because His. In Heaven there will be no anguish and no duty of turning away from our earthly Beloveds. First, because we shall have turned already; from the portraits to the Original, from the rivulets to the Fountain, from the creatures He made lovable to Love Himself. But secondly, because we shall find them all in Him. By loving Him more than them we shall love them more than we now do. ~ C S Lewis,
963:After a long while he sat upright with great effort, exhaled a sigh and reached for a clean sheet of lined paper, smoothing it out on the desk. He unscrewed the lid of his fountain pen, laid it perpendicular to his paper, and began to write. Often he compared his writing to white water. He had only to leap in to be dragged away on its rapids, thrown this way and that with his own will rendered impotent. While writing he found the words came from the muscles in his hands, the feel of the shaft of his pen, the locked joint of his elbow. the scratching noise of the nib marking paper and, underneath all that, some coordinating impulse in his guts. Certainly not from his mind. ~ Ali Shaw,
964:As a new creation, you have been liberated from the struggle of self-improvement. Absolutely flawless, our old fearful, sinful, blemished selves have been eradicated once and for all. Perfected once and for all by His sacrifice, we can drink daily from the fountain of our union with Him, no longer expecting defeat. As our mind changes regarding the truth of our identity, our outward lives bear corresponding fruit. No longer believing the false humility pop mantra of our times that we are “still sinners” bound to decay, poverty, disease or addiction. We are sons and daughters – our true identity shines from the inside out chock-full of inheritance. Right here. Right now. ~ John Crowder,
965:Still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.
Narcissism, the unstable self, the fractured ego, Maud thought, who am I? A matrix for a susurration of texts and codes?It was both a pleasant and an unpleasant idea, this requirement that she think of herself as intermittent and partial. There was the question of the awkward body. The skin, the breath, the eyes, the hair, their history, which did seem to exist. ~ A S Byatt,
966: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,
967:rumors. I’ll not say more on the subject. Cheese in your eggs?” “Yes, please.” * * * With Kendra gone, Seth got out the equipment he had bundled in his towel, including his emergency kit and the jar he had smuggled from the pantry. The jar was now empty, washed clean in the bathroom sink. Taking out his pocket knife, Seth used the awl to punch holes in the lid. Unscrewing the top, he gathered bits of grass, flower petals, a twig, and a pebble, and placed them in the jar. Then he wandered across the garden from the pool, leaving the skimmer behind. If skill failed, he would resort to cunning. He found a good spot not far from a fountain, then took the small mirror from his ~ Brandon Mull,
968:started writing Stardust in 1994, but mentally timeslipped about seventy years to do it. The mid-1920s seemed like a time when people enjoyed writing those sorts of things, before there were fantasy shelves in the bookshops, before trilogies and books ‘in the great tradition of The Lord of the Rings’. This, on the other hand, would be in the tradition of Lud-in-the-Mist and The King of Elfland’s Daughter. All I was certain of was that nobody had written books on computers back in the 1920s, so I bought a large book of unlined pages, and the first fountain pen I had owned since my schooldays and a copy of Katharine Briggs’s Dictionary of Fairies. I filled the pen and began. ~ Neil Gaiman,
969:The Empty Bowl
I held the golden vessel of my soul
And prayed that God would fill it from on high.
Day after day the importuning cry
Grew stronger-grew, a heaven-accusing dole
Because no sacred waters laved my bowl.
'So full the fountain, Lord, wouldst Thou deny
The little needed for a soul's supply?
I ask but this small portion of Thy whole.'
Then from the vast invisible Somewhere,
A voice, as one love-authorized by Him,
Spake, and the tumult of my heart was stilled.
'Who wants the waters must the bowl prepare;
Pour out the self, that chokes it to the brim,
But emptied vessels, from the Source are filled.'
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
970:Afterwards
SHE opened her moist crimson lips to sing;
And from her throat that is so white and full
The notes leaped like a fountain. A smooth lull
Was o'er my heart: as when—a viol—string
Having been broken—the first musical ring
Once over, all the rest is but a dull
Crude dissonance, howe'er thou twist and pull
The sundered fragments. A most weary thing
It is within the perished heart to seek
Pain, and not find it, but a clinging pall
Like sleep upon the mind. The mere set plan
Of life then comes, and grief that is not weak
Because it has no tears. Life's all—in—all
Was certainly at end when this began.
~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,
971:It is not much use to talk about religion until one has felt it. Why is there so much disturbance, so much fighting and quarrelling in the name of God? There has been more bloodshed in the name of God than for any other cause, because people never went to the fountain-head; they were content only to give a mental assent to the customs of their forefathers, and wanted others to do the same. What right has a man to say he has a soul if he does not feel it, or that there is a God if he does not see Him? If there is a God we must see Him, if there is a soul we must perceive it; otherwise it is better not to believe. It is better to be an outspoken atheist than a hypocrite. ~ Swami Vivekananda,
972:ROSALIND
Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.

ORLANDO
Forever and a day.

ROSALIND
Say “a day” without the “ever.” No, no, Orlando, men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock- pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more newfangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry. I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou art inclined to sleep. ~ William Shakespeare,
973:Light came and went and came again, the great plume of the fountain pulsed and winds of April sheeted it across the Square in a rainbow gossamer of spray. The fire department horses drummed on the floors with wooden stomp, most casually, and with dry whiskings of their clean, coarse tails. The street cars ground into the Square from every portion of the compass and halted briefly like wound toys in their familiar quarter-hourly formula. A dray, hauled by a boneyard nag, rattled across the cobbles on the other side before his father's shop. The courthouse bell boomed out its solemn warning of immediate three, and everything was just the same as it had always been. ~ Thomas Wolfe, The Lost Boy,
974:The cake booth has as much to do with my education as helping my mother bake the cake. When we come to the carnival I believe that the cake my mother carries in is as beautiful and perfect as anything I have ever seen. But when we set our cake down on the long wooden table, I know it is only in the middle of the pack. There are towering white cakes with roses the size of hens' eggs made out of frosting and a sculpted Bundt cake that looks like the base of an elaborate fountain. There must be fifty cakes on the table when the Cake Walk begins and I stand in front of each one of them for a minute and wonder about their ingredients. Did they all have vanilla? One smells like oranges. ~ Jeanne Ray,
975:The Enkindled Spring
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.
~ David Herbert Lawrence,
976:Deeds
'Tis well with words, oh masters, ye have sought,
To turn men's eyes yearning to the great and true,
Yet first take heed to what your own hands do;
By deeds not words the souls of men are taught;
Good lives alone are fruitful; they are caught
Into the fountain of all life (wherethrough
Men's souls that drink are broken or made new)
Like drops of heavenly elixir, fraught
With the clear essence of eternal youth.
Even one little deed of weak untruth
Is like a drop of quenchless venom cast,
A liquid thread, into life's feeding stream,
Woven forever with its crystal gleam,
Bearing the seed of death and woe at last.
~ Archibald Lampman,
977:Owing its ratification to the law of a State, it has been contended that the same authority might repeal the law by which it was ratified. However gross a heresy it may be to maintain that a party to a compact has a right to revoke that compact, the doctrine itself has had respectable advocates. The possibility of a question of this nature, proves the necessity of laying the foundations of our National Government deeper than in the mere sanction of delegated authority. The fabric of American Empire ought to rest on the solid basis of the consent of the People. The streams of National power ought to flow immediately from that pure original fountain of all legitimate authority. ~ Alexander Hamilton,
978:The Fountain Of Blood
A fountain's pulsing sobs--like this my blood
Measures its flowing, so it sometimes seems.
I hear a gentle murmur as it streams;
Where the wound lies I've never understood.
Like water meadows, boulevards are flooded.
Cobblestones, crisscrossed by scarlet rills,
Are islands; creatures come and drink their fill.
Nothing in nature now remains unblooded.
I used to hope that wine could bring me ease,
Could lull asleep my deeply gnawing mind.
I was a fool: the senses clear with wine.
I looked to Love to cure my old disease.
Love led me to a thicket of IVs
Where bristling needles thirsted for each vein.
~ Charles Baudelaire,
979:Your good spirit moved over the waters. But he was not upheld by them as though he rested upon them, for when he is said to rest upon a man, it is he who gives that man rest in himself. It was your incorruptible and immutable will, which is sufficient in itself and to itself, that moved over the life which you had created. To that life living and living in happiness are not one and the same, because it lives even in its state of fluidity and darkness. To gain happiness it must still be turned from that state towards God, its Creator. It must live ever closer to the Fountain of life. In his light it must see the light; in him it must be given perfection, splendor, and bliss. ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,
980:Sonnets To Orpheus, Part Two, XII

Want the change. Be inspired by the flame
where everything shines as it disappears.
The artist, when sketching, loves nothing so much
as the curve of the body as it turns away.

What locks itself in sameness has congealed.
Is it safer to be gray and numb?
What turns hard becomes rigid
and is easily shattered.

Pour yourself like a fountain.
Flow into the knowledge that what you are seeking
finishes often at the start, and, with ending, begins.

Every happiness is the child of a separation
it did not think it could survive. And Daphne, becoming a laurel,
dares you to become the wind.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke,
981:Sonnet Ci: The One Hope
When vain desire at last and vain regret
Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain,
What shall assuage the unforgotten pain
And teach the unforgetful to forget?
Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long unmet,—
Or may the soul at once in a green plain
Stoop through the spray of some sweet life-fountain
And cull the dew-drenched flowering amulet?
Ah! when the wan soul in that golden air
Between the scriptured petals softly blown
Peers breathless for the gift of grace unknown,—
Ah! let none other alien spell soe'er
But only the one Hope's one name be there,—
Not less nor more, but even that word alone.
~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,
982:In The Temple
When Lilian comes I scarcely know
If Winter wraps the world in snow,
Or if 'tis Summer strikes a-glow
The fountain in the court below,
When Lilian comes.
Her flower-like eyes, her soft lips bring
The warmth and welcome of the Spring,
And round my room, a fairy ring,
See violets, violets blossoming,
When Lilion comes.
When Lilian goes I hear again
The infinite despair of rain
Drip on my darkening window-pane
The tears of Winter on the wane,
When Lilian goes.
Yet still about my lonely room
The visionary violets bloom,
And with her presence still perfume
The tedious page that I resume
When Lilian goes.
~ Arthur Symons,
983:God helps us in the obstacles of life. When you turn your obstacles over to the Lord, He acts. What will He do? Sometimes He overcomes the obstacles. God is with us in the hopeless places. How hopeless the Israelites were at the Red Sea! The enemy soldiers were behind them; the wilderness was around them; the sea was in front of them. But God opened a way to escape. Sometimes God removes the obstacles—the “hills” and the “mountains.” He just makes them skip and run away like animals. He also can turn the obstacles into blessings. He “turned the rock into a pool of water, the flint into a fountain of waters” (v. 8). If God doesn’t overcome or remove your obstacle, let Him turn it into a blessing. ~ Warren W Wiersbe,
984:In sum, disciples might do well to avoid the bibliolatry that characterizes scripture as unerring truth. Parley Pratt made this point himself in The Fountain of Knowledge, a small pamphlet he wrote in 1844. With elegant metaphor, he noted that scripture resulted from revelatory process and was thus the product of revealed truth, not the other way around. We do well to look to a stream for nourishing water, but we do better to secure the fountain. That fountain, Pratt noted, is “the gift of revelation,” which “the restoration of all things” heralds.21 Or, in George MacDonald’s metaphor, we should hold the scriptures as “the moon of our darkness, . . . not dear as the sun towards which we haste." p56 ~ Terryl L Givens,
985:A hidden mussel was blowing bubbles like a spring through the sand where his boot was teasing the water. It was the little pulse of bubbles and not himself or herself that was the moment for her then; and he could have already departed and she could have already wept, and it would have been the same, as she stared at the little fountain rising so gently out of the shimmering sand. A clear love is in the world - this came to her as insistently as the mussel's bubbles through the water. There it was, existing there where they came and were beside it now. It is in the bubble in the water in the river, and it has its own changing and its mysteries of days and nights, and it does not care how we come and go. ~ Eudora Welty,
986:I don’t know much about your principalities, but I know a lot about mine. Colossians 2:10 continues to tell us He is: The head of all principality and power (KJV). The fountain head from which all dominion and power proceed (KNOX). The authority over all authorities, and the supreme power over all powers (PHI). He is the highest ruler over every other power (TAY). This is the Godhead who lives right inside of you! You have an inexhaustible and eternal source of power, dominion and exhilarating joy living inside of you. All of God lives within you thanks to your union with Christ. The devil is not a bit scared of your shofars and worship banners, but the blood of Christ did a tremendous job of defeating him. ~ John Crowder,
987:As the departing president well understood, in this world there is only incremental progress. Only the willfully blind can ignore that the history of human existence is simultaneously the history of pain: of brutality, murder, mass extinction, every form of venality and cyclical horror. No land is free of it; no people are without their bloodstain; no tribe entirely innocent. But there is still this redeeming matter of incremental progress. It might look small to those with apocalyptic perspectives, but to she who not so long ago could not vote, or drink from the same water fountain as her fellow citizens, or marry the person she chose, or live in a certain neighborhood, such incremental change feels enormous. ~ Zadie Smith,
988:Dantis Tenebrae (In Memory Of My Father)
AND didst thou know indeed, when at the font
Together with thy name thou gav'st me his,
That also on thy son must Beatrice
Decline her eyes according to her wont,
Accepting me to be of those that haunt
The vale of magical dark mysteries
Where to the hills her poet's foot-track lies,
And wisdom's living fountain to his chaunt
Trembles in music? This is that steep land
Where he that holds his journey stands at gaze
Tow'rd sunset, when the clouds like a new height
Seem piled to climb. These things I understand:
For here, where day still soothes my lifted face,
On thy bowed head, my father, fell the night.
~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,
989:The Sunset Of Romanticism
How beautiful a new sun is when it rises,
flashing out its greeting, like an explosion!
- Happy, whoever hails with sweet emotion
its descent, nobler than a dream, to our eyes!
I remember! I’ve seen all, flower, furrow, fountain,
swoon beneath its look, like a throbbing heart…
- Let’s run quickly, it’s late, towards the horizon,
to catch at least one slanting ray as it departs!
But I pursue the vanishing God in vain:
irresistible Night establishes its sway,
full of shudders, black, dismal, cold:
an odour of the tomb floats in the shadow,
at the swamp’s edge, feet faltering I go,
bruising damp slugs, and unexpected toads.
~ Charles Baudelaire,
990:How are You at once the source of fire, how also the fountain of dew? How at once burning and sweetness, how a remedy for all disease? How do You make gods of us men, how do You make darkness light? How do You make one reascend from Hell, how do You make us mortals imperishable? How do You draw darkness to light, how do You triumph over night? How do You illumine the heart? how do You transform me entirely? How do You become one with men, how do You make them sons of God? [bk1sm.gif] -- from Hymns of Divine Love: Songs of praise by one of the great mystics of all church history, by Symeon the New Theologian / Channeled by Gearoge A. Maloney, S.J.

~ Symeon the New Theologian, How are You at once the source of fire
,
991:Some of those are over a hundred years old,” Alessandro explained as he unlocked the door. “Dat’s older den you or mommy!” Will said. He stopped and looked at the white marble fountain in the middle of the walkway with a figurine that had water coming out of its mouth and falling into the fountain. He lifted on his tip toes to look inside of the vessel. “Der’s water in der. How come it don’ fall out?” Will asked. Bree pulled out a penny and handed it to him. “Here, make a wish.” Will closed his eyes tight. “I wish for lotsa presents fo’ my berfday,” he announced and tossed in the penny. Bree snorted. “You’re not supposed to say your wish out loud.” “Oh. Okay, gimme nudder one. I say it in my head dis time,” Will said. ~ E Jamie,
992:Sonnet-Vii
Our life is like a forest, where the sun
Glints down upon us through the throbbing leaves;
The full light rarely finds us. One by one,
Deep rooted in our souls, there springeth up
Dark groves of human passion, rich in gloom,
At first no bigger than an acorn-cup.
Hope threads the tangled labyrinth, but grieves
Till all our sins have rotted in their tomb,
And made the rich loam of each yearning heart
To bring forth fruits and flowers to new life.
We feel the dew from heaven, and there start
From some deep fountain little rills whose strife
Is drowned in music. Thus in light and shade
We live, and move, and die, through all this earthly glade.
~ Charles Sangster,
993:We do not (and will not) have the resources to properly care for our increasing elderly population, yet we insist on medical intervention to keep them alive. To allow them to die would signal the failure of our supposedly infallible modern medical system. The surgeon Atul Gawande wrote in a devastating New Yorker article on aging that “there have been dozens of best-selling books on aging but they tend to have titles like ‘Younger Next Year,’ ‘The Fountain of Age,’ ‘Ageless,’ ‘The Sexy Years.’ Still, there are costs to averting our eyes from the realities. For one thing, we put off changes that we need to make as a society. . . . In thirty years, there will be as many people over eighty as there are under five. ~ Caitlin Doughty,
994:MOTHER IS WATER

I wish I could
Shower your head with flowers
And anoint your feet with my tears,
For I know I have caused you
So much heartache, frustration and despair –
Throughout my youthful years.
I wish I could give you
The remainder of my life
To add to yours,
Or simply erase
The lines on your face,
And mend all that has been torn.
For next to God,
You are the fire
That has given light
To the flame in each of my eyes.
You are the fountain
That nourished my growth,
And from your chalice –
Gave me life.
Without the wetness of your love,
The fragrance of your water,
Or the trickling sounds of
Your voice,
I shall always feel
thirsty. ~ Suzy Kassem,
995: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,
996:Sonnet Lxxv.
WHERE the wild woods and pathless forests frown,
The darkling Pilgrim seeks his unknown way,
Till on the grass he throws him weary down,
To wait in broken sleep the dawn of day:
Through boughs just waving in the silent air,
With pale capricious light the summer moon
Chequers his humid couch; while Fancy there,
That loves to wanton in the night's deep noon,
Calls from the mossy roots and fountain edge
Fair visionary Nymphs that haunt the shade,
Or Naiads rising from the whispering sedge:
And, 'mid the beauteous group, his dear loved maid
Seems beckoning him with smiles to join the train:
Then, starting from his dream, he feels his woes again!
~ Charlotte Smith,
997:Before that, before it was ever a hotel at all, five full centuries ago, it was the home of a wealthy privateer who gave up raiding ships to study bees in the pastures outside Saint-Malo, scribbling in notebooks and eating honey straight from combs. The crests above the door lintels still have bumblebees carved into the oak; the ivy-covered fountain in the courtyard is shaped like a hive. Werner’s favorites are five faded frescoes on the ceilings of the grandest upper rooms, where bees as big as children float against blue backdrops, big lazy drones and workers with diaphanous wings—where, above a hexagonal bathtub, a single nine-foot-long queen, with multiple eyes and a golden-furred abdomen, curls across the ceiling. ~ Anthony Doerr,
998:People were patient with each other in the Grand Mosque, and communal—everyone washing his or her feet in the same fountain, with no shoving or prejudice. We were all Muslims in God’s house, and it was beautiful. It had a quality of timelessness. I think this is one reason Muslims believe that Islam means peace: because in a large, cool place full of kindness you do feel peaceful. But as soon as we left the mosque, Saudi Arabia meant intense heat and filth and cruelty. People had their heads cut off in public squares. Adults spoke of it. It was a normal, routine thing: after the Friday noon prayer you could go home for lunch, or you could go and watch the executions. Hands were cut off. Men were flogged. Women were stoned. ~ Ayaan Hirsi Ali,
999:put another way, electrons and all other particles are no more substantive or permanent than the form a geyser of water takes as it gushes out of a fountain. They are sustained by a constant influx from the implicate order, and when a particle appears to be destroyed, it is not lost. It has merely enfolded back into the deeper order from which it sprang. A piece of holographic film and the image it generates are also an example of an implicate and explicate order. The film is an implicate order because the image encoded in its interference patterns is a hidden totality enfolded throughout the whole. The hologram projected from the film is an explicate order because it represents the unfolded and perceptible version of the image. ~ Michael Talbot,
1000:Vivien
Her eyes under their lashes were blue pools
Fringed round with lilies; her bright hair unfurled
Clothed her as sunshine clothes the summer world.
Her robes were gauzes -- gold and green and gules,
All furry things flocked round her, from her hand
Nibbling their foods and fawning at her feet.
Two peacocks watched her where she made her seat
Beside a fountain in Broceliande.
Sometimes she sang. . . . Whoever heard forgot
Errand and aim, and knights at noontide here,
Riding from fabulous gestes beyond the seas,
Would follow, tranced, and seek . . . and find her not . . .
But wake that night, lost, by some woodland mere,
Powdered with stars and rimmed with silent trees.
~ Alan Seeger,
1001:The Confirmation
Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then found you as a traveller finds a place
Of welcome suddenly amid the wrong
Valleys and rocks and twisting roads. But you,
What shall I call you? A fountain in a waste,
A well of water in a country dry,
Or anything that's honest and good, an eye
That makes the whole world seem bright. Your open heart,
Simple with giving, gives the primal deed,
The first good world, the blossom, the blowing seed,
The hearth, the steadfast land, the wandering sea.
Not beautiful or rare in every part.
But like yourself, as they were meant to be.
~ Edwin Muir,
1002:It's asking us our names," Falkor reported.

"I'm Atreyu!" Atreyu cried.

"I'm Falkor!" cried Falkor.

The boy without a name was silent.

Atreyu looked at him, then took him by the hand and cried: "He's Bastian Balthazar Bux!"

"It asks," Falkor translated, "why he doesn't speak for himself."

"He can't," said Atreyu. "He has forgotten everything."

Falkor listened again to the roaring of the fountain.

"Without memory, it says, he cannot come in. The snakes won't let him through."

Atreyu replied: "I have stored up everything he told us about himself and his world. I vouch for him."

Falkor listened.

"It wants to know by what right?"

"I am his friend," said Atreyu. ~ Michael Ende,
1003:Poet's Mood
Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see it,
But only melancholy;
Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up, without a sound!
Fountain-head and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley:
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
~ Beaumont and Fletcher,
1004:It was the sixties, exactly, all we wanted to do was to smoke a lot of dope and ball a lot of chicks. Vietnam, excuse me? Why would I wanna go get my ass shot off in some stinking rice paddy just so Nixon can have his four more years? Screw that, and I wasn't the only one who felt that way. All the big warmongers these days who took a pass on Vietnam, look, I'd be the last person on earth to start casting blame. Bush, Cheney, Rove, all those guys, they just did what everybody else was doing and I was right there with 'em, chicken as anybody. My problem now is how tough and gung-ho they are, all that bring it on crap, I mean, Jesus, show a little humility, people. They ought to be just as careful of your young lives as they were with their own. ~ Ben Fountain,
1005:Our Life Is Like A Forest, Where The Sun
Our life is like a forest, where the sun
Glints down upon us through the throbbing leaves;
The full light rarely finds us. One by one,
Deep rooted in our souls, there springeth up
Dark groves of human passion, rich in gloom,
At first no bigger than an acorn-cup.
Hope threads the tangled labyrinth, but grieves
Till all our sins have rotted in their tomb,
And made the rich loam of each yearning heart
To bring forth fruits and flowers to new life.
We feel the dew from heaven, and there start
From some deep fountain little rills whose strife
Is drowned in music. Thus in light and shade
We live, and move, and die, through all this earthly glade.
~ Charles Sangster,
1006:Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all. ~ Herman Melville,
1007:What strange hesitancy, fear, or apathy stops us from looking within ourselves, from trying to grasp the true essence of joy and sadness, desire and hatred? Fear of the unknown prevails, and the courage to explore that inner world fails at the frontier of our mind. A Japanese astronomer once confided to me: “It takes a lot of daring to look within.” This remark—made by a scientist at the height of his powers, a steady and open-minded man—intrigued me. Recently I also met a Californian teenager who told me: “I don’t want to look inside myself. I’m afraid of what I’d find there.” Why should he falter before what promised to be an absolutely fascinating research project? As Marcus Aurelius wrote: “Look within; within is the fountain of all good. ~ Matthieu Ricard,
1008:Genevieve was familiar with one of the duke's properties- Rosemont- as she'd gone to tour it once when he was away at one of his other vast tracts of lands. It was surprisingly modest by duke terms, a redbrick manor in West Sussex presiding over a collection of softly swelling hills, which surrounded a lake populated by enormous, irritable swans and overhung with willows. The garden had been brilliant with its namesake blooms and the fountain in the courtyard featured a lasciviously grinning stone satyr performing an arabesque and spitting water high into the air.
She'd found it delightful. Its pocket-sized, whimsical beauty hardly seemed to suit him, but then he normally spent his time in London and likely had all but forgotten he owned it. ~ Julie Anne Long,
1009:I practiced law for five years and that gives you insight into a certain mind-set that maybe a lot of writers haven’t had firsthand access to. There’s an almost casual cruelty, a very low level of overall awareness, but sometimes there’s also knowledge that real damage is being done—this attitude of “Oh, what the hell,” this kind of moral cognitive dissonance. These are people who have never missed a meal. It’s an unknowingness, an unawareness . . . Many people were operating from a very narrow range of experience, and yet they had complete faith in it. Their way was the correct way, the only way. They had virtually no awareness of any other way of life except in terms of demonizing things . . . It’s an extremely blindered experience of the world. ~ Ben Fountain,
1010:The Luxembourg is within five minutes’ walk of the rue Notre Dame des Champs, and there he sat under the shadow of a winged god, and there he had sat for an hour, poking holes in the dust and watching the steps which lead from the northern terrace to the fountain. The sun hung, a purple globe, above the misty hills of Meudon. Long streamers of clouds touched with rose swept low on the western sky, and the dome of the distant Invalides burned like an opal through the haze. Behind the Palace the smoke from a high chimney mounted straight into the air, purple until it crossed the sun, where it changed to a bar of smouldering fire. High above the darkening foliage of the chestnuts the twin towers of St. Sulpice rose, an ever-deepening silhouette. ~ Robert W Chambers,
1011:Allow me to give you this orange, Your Highness, along with my wishes for a swift recovery.”
“That’s very generous of you, Master Galen,” she replied, a faint light kindling in her eyes, “especially since they are my family’s oranges.” She took it from him, rolling it between her palms. “And considering that my illness if most likely a result of falling into the fountain the day we met.”
Galen winced. He had known she would remember that, but he had hoped she wouldn’t hold it against him. Although, judging by the faint smile on her pale lips, she didn’t mean it in earnest.
“Well, Your Highness, I know that I am indeed handsome, but I can hardly be blamed if my good looks overcame you so strongly that you fainted,” he said, striking a pose. ~ Jessica Day George,
1012:It was only after I grabbed MacKenzie’s waist and pulled with all my might that the three of us finally tumbled into a big heap on the marble floor next to the fountain. Hey, at least we weren’t IN the fountain! But somehow the force of us falling had launched Tiffany’s cell phone into the air. She watched in HORROR as it fell into the fountain with a big SPLASH and quickly sank to the bottom! “OH NO! MY PHONE!! MY PHONE!!” she screamed hysterically. Then she DOVE right into the fountain after it! Soon Tiffany’s shrieks echoed through the halls of the school. “OMG! MY CELL PHONE IS RUINED! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO TAKE A SELFIE WITHOUT MY PHONE?!!” That’s when I whispered to MacKenzie, “Since Tiffany’s phone is all wet, I really think we should be nice and help ~ Rachel Ren e Russell,
1013:Milton puts it most profoundly when he says, Well knows he who uses to consider, that our faith and knowledge thrives by exercise, as well as our limbs and complexion. Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain; if her waters flow not in a perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition. A man may be a heretic in the truth; and if he believe things only because his pastor says so, or the Assembly so determines, without knowing other reason, though his belief be true, yet the very truth he holds becomes his heresy. In other words, the power of truth lies not in abstract propositions but in the understanding and willful application of truth by living, breathing persons which can occur only in the context of liberty. ~ Karen Swallow Prior,
1014:One day I said, “Mac, the only way in this world that you can increase your soda fountain volume is to sell to people who don’t take up a stool. Look, I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I will give you 200 or 300 containers with covers, however many you need to try this for a month in your store down the street. Now most of your takeout customers will be Walgreen employees from headquarters here, and you can conduct your own marketing survey on them and see how they like it. You get the cups free, so it’s not going to cost you anything to try it.” Finally he agreed. I brought him the cups, and we set the thing up at one end of the soda fountain. It was a big success from the first day. It wasn’t long before McNamarra was more excited about the idea of takeouts than I was. ~ Ray Kroc,
1015:Noblesse Oblige
I hold it the duty of one who is gifted
And specially dowered I all men’s sight,
To know no rest till his life is lifted
Fully up to his great gifts’ height.
He must mould the man into rare completeness,
For gems are only in gold refined.
He must fashion his thoughts into perfect sweetness,
And cast out folly and pride from his mind.
For he who drinks from a god’s gold fountain
Of art of music or rhythmic song
Must sift from his soul the chaff of malice,
And weed from his heart the roots of wrong.
Great gifts should be worn, like a crown befitting,
And not like gems in a beggar’s hands!
And the toil must be constant and unremitting
Which lifts up the king to the crown’s demands.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
1016: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,
1017:One understands then why woman has no sexual parts, properly speaking. It is because she is herself a sexual part - a sexual part of man, to cumbersome for him to carry around permanently and therefore deposited outside himself for most of the time and taken up when needed. Moreover the quality that distinguishes man from animals is this very power of equipping himself at any moment with an instrument, tool or arm that he needs, but that he can get rid of straight away, whereas the lobster has to drag his two pincers about with him everywhere. And just as mans hand is a sort of grappling hook that enables him to grasp a hammer, sword or fountain pen according to his needs, so his sex is the sort of grappling hook of the sexual parts rather than the sexual part itslef. ~ Michel Tournier,
1018:Fierce roars the midnight storm
O'er the wild mountain,
Dark clouds the night deform,
Swift rolls the fountain--

See! o'er yon rocky height,
Dim mists are flying--
See by the moons pale light,
Poor Laura's dying!

Shame and remorse shall howl,
By her false pillow--
Fiercer than storms that roll,
O'er the white billow;

No hand her eyes to close,
When life is flying,
But she will find repose,
For Lauras dying!

Then will I seek my love,
Then will I cheer her,
Then my esteem will prove,
When no friend is near her.

On her grave I will lie,
When life is parted,
On her grave I will die,
For the false hearted.

DECEMBER, 1809.

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Song. -- Fierce Roars The Midnight Storm
,
1019: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,
1020:Herself A Rose Who Bore The Rose
Herself a rose, who bore the Rose,
She bore the Rose and felt its thorn.
All loveliness new-born
Took on her bosom its repose,
And slept and woke there night and morn.
Lily herself, she bore the one
Fair Lily; sweeter, whiter, far
Than she or others are:
The Sun of Righteousness her Son,
She was His morning star.
She gracious, He essential Grace,
He was the Fountain, she the rill:
Her goodness to fulfil
And gladness, with proportioned pace
He led her steps through good and ill.
Christ's mirror she of grace and love,
Of beauty and of life and death:
By hope and love and faith
Transfigured to His likeness, 'Dove,
Spouse, Sister, Mother,' Jesus saith.
~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,
1021:Mimicry flows like beauty from Mexico City’s faucets, space and time are relative, and instead of the usual floral-and-stone façade, there’s dahlia and obsidian. In the course of time, what was yesterday a lake of water becomes asphalt today, and the past is a perpetual duplication that drowns the future. Yesterday’s omens come back, the same substance in a different shape. The city is a nagual that becomes a wall of skulls, an intelligent domotique structure: the Huitzilopochtli temple in a cathedral and Castile roses in cactus bouquets. Time is measured simultaneously with the Aztec, Julian, and Gregorian calendars and the cesium fountain atomic clock; the heart of Mexico City is made of mud and green rocks, and the God of Rain continues to cry over the whole country. ~ Paco Ignacio Taibo II,
1022:She turned to him with wide, shocked eyes. "Why did he..."
His lips twitched. No coarse language in front of the infants limited the ability to discuss the fountain of baby piss that had just arced halfway across the room.
"Twasn't you, darling. It's one of their favorite bath-time games.
"Something about the cool air on their naked...berries," he substituted at the last second....
"Do I have piddle in my hair?" she whispered, her eyes sparkling with laughter above her flushed cheeks.
"Not much," he assured her with a straight face. "You look almost becoming."...
"Decades from now, when our children ask how I fell in love with their mother, I'll say 'twas her sweet, gentle compliments during bath-time, and her fleetness of foot whilst dodging a flow of --- ~ Erica Ridley,
1023:The cry for love and communion and for recognition that rises from the hearts of people in need reveals the fountain of love in us and our capacity to give life. At the same time, it can reveal our hardness of heart and are fears. Their cry is so demanding, and we are frequently seduced by wealth, power and the values of our societies. We want to climb the ladder of human promotion; we want to be recognized for our efficiency, power and virtue. The cry of the poor is threatening to the rich person within us.

We are sometimes prepared to give money and a little time, but we are frightened to give our hearts, to enter into a personal relationship of love and communion with them. For if we do so, we shall have to die to all our selfishness and to all the hardness of our heart. ~ Jean Vanier,
1024: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,
1025:Horace Iii. 13
O fountain of Bandusia,
Whence crystal waters flow,
With garlands gay and wine I'll pay
The sacrifice I owe;
A sportive kid with budding horns
I have, whose crimson blood
Anon shall dye and sanctify
Thy cool and babbling flood.
O fountain of Bandusia,
The dog-star's hateful spell
No evil brings unto the springs
That from thy bosom well;
Here oxen, wearied by the plough,
The roving cattle here,
Hasten in quest of certain rest
And quaff thy gracious cheer.
O fountain of Bandusia,
Ennobled shalt thou be,
For I shall sing the joys that spring
Beneath yon ilex-tree;
Yes, fountain of Bandusia,
Posterity shall know
The cooling brooks that from thy nooks
Singing and dancing go!
~ Eugene Field,
1026:Immanuel, God with us-that He would leave the spiritual realm and be present in the flesh and blood in such an act of humility is a staggering notion. As it is, He willingly gave His blood, in the flesh, so that others might find life, for it is written: "He did not come by water only, but by blood," and "Without the shedding of blood there is no remission." Now blood is required to give new life to the dead.
I tell you, He did not give only a small amount to satisfy this requirement. He was beaten and crushed and pierced until that blood flowed like a river for the sake of love. It was for love, not religion, that He died.
There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Immanuel's veins. And those plunged beneath that watery grave to drink of His blood will never be the same. ~ Ted Dekker,
1027:Stop.” She turned her face away. Slipping out from between him and the wall, Cass walked along a path of stepping-stones toward a bronze fountain at the back of the garden. Beyond the fountain was a wrought-iron fence, and beyond the fence was an alley. She rested one hand on the iron bars, feeling a bit like the caged bird Falco had once accused her of being.
He took her hand and led her back to the edge of the fountain, where she sat. Sitting beside her, he pressed his leg against her hip. “What is it?” he asked.
“We came out here to talk, remember?” she said.
“We can talk later.” He squeezed her hand, his fingers massaging the middle of her palm. Mannaggia. Why did every single touch have to make her want things? “When you’re not dressed like that,” he added. ~ Fiona Paul,
1028:Horace Ii, 13.
O fountain of Blandusia,
Whence crystal waters flow,
With garlands gay and wine I'll pay
The sacrifice I owe;
A sportive kid with budding horns
I have, whose crimson blood
Anon shall die and sanctify
Thy cool and babbling flood.
O fountain of Blandusia,
The dogstar's hateful spell
No evil brings unto the springs
That from thy bosom well;
Here oxen, wearied by the plow,
The roving cattle here,
Hasten in quest of certain rest
And quaff thy gracious cheer.
O fountain of Blandusia,
Ennobled shalt thou be,
For I shall sing the joys that spring
Beneath your ilex tree;
Yes, fountain of Blandusia,
Posterity shall know
The cooling brooks that from thy nooks
Singing and dancing go!
~ Eugene Field,
1029:Often when he was not working he had come here and sat an entire afternoon, lulled by the din and music from the other rooms into a state of vague ecstasy, while he contemplated the small sheet of water outside the window. It was that happy frame of mind into which his people could project themselves so easily - the mere absence of immediate unpleasant preoccupation could start it off, and a landscape which included the sea, a river, a fountain, or anything that occupied the eye without engaging the mind, was of use in sustaining it. It was the world behind the world, where reflection precludes the necessity for action, and the calm which all things seek in death appears briefly in the guise of contentment, the spirit at last persuaded that the still waters of perfection are reachable. ~ Paul Bowles,
1030:Please approach with care these figures in black.
Regard with care the weight they bear,
the scars that mark their hearts.
Do you think you can handle these bodies of graphite & coal dust?
This color might rub off. A drop of this red liquid
could stain your skin.
This black powder could blow you sky high.
No ordinary pigments blacken our blues.
Would you mop the floor with this bucket of blood?
Would you rinse your soiled laundry in this basin of tears?
Would you suckle hot milk from this cracked vessel?
Would you be baptized in this fountain of funky sweat?
Please approach with care
these bodies still waiting to be touched.
We invite you to come closer.
We permit you to touch & be touched.
We hope you will engage with care. ~ Harryette Mullen,
1031:Bakhchisarai
Still vast, but desolate, the dwelling of the Girey kings!
On stairs, in vestibules once brushed by Pashas' brows
And across sofas that were thrones of power, sanctuaries of love,
Grasshoppers veer and bounce, the serpent winds,
And rank vines crawl through myriad-colored windows
To invade mute vaults and voiceless halls, conquer
Man's labor in the name of nature, and inscribe
There in the letters of Balthazar: DESTRUCTION.
In the center of a hall, a basin hewn in marble:
The fountain of the harem, still intact,
Whispers its tearful pearls alone, as if to ask:
Where are they, grandeur, power and love? Their term
Was to have been forever, and the stream's, ephemeral,
But they have passed and the white fount is here.
~ Adam Mickiewicz,
1032: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,
1033:The Enchanter
In the deep heart of man a poet dwells
Who all the day of life his summer story tells;
Scatters on every eye dust of his spells,
Scent, form and color; to the flower and shells
Wins the believing child with wondrous tales;
Touches a cheek with colors of romance,
And crowds a history into a glance;
Gives beauty to the lake and fountain,
Spies oversea the fires of the mountain;
When thrushes ope their throat, 't is he
that sings,
And he that paints the oriole's fiery wings.
The little Shakspeare in the maiden's heart
Makes Romeo of a plough-boy on his cart;
Opens the eye to Virture's starlike meed
And gives persuasion to a gentle deed.
by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Enchanter
,
1034:Had it pleased heaven
To try me with affliction; had they rain'd
All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head.
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips,
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes,
I should have found in some place of my soul
A drop of patience: but, alas, to make me
A fixed figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at!
Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
But there, where I have garner'd up my heart,
Where either I must live, or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!
Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads
To knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion there,
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin,--
Ay, there, look grim as hell! ~ William Shakespeare,
1035:On the way to Washington Square she thought to herself that some kid would probably fall off the slide and cut his lip. Later, in the park, Matt fell from the swing and cut his lip. Cassandra held a Kleenex to the cut, fought back her own tears. What's the matter with me? What more do I want? God, let me just see the good things. She forced herself to look around, out of herself, and, in fact, the cherry blossoms were in bloom.They had been coming out little by little, but it was that day they were lovely. Then, as if because she saw the trees, the fountain turned on. Look, Mama! Matt cried and began to run. All the children and their mothers ran to the sparkling fountain. The postman walked right by it as usual. He seemed not to notice that it was on, got wet by the spray. One/two. One/two. ~ Lucia Berlin,
1036:LAMPS burn in every house, O blind one! and you cannot see them.
One day your eyes shall suddenly be opened, and you shall see: and the fetters of death will fall from you.
There is nothing to say or to hear, there is nothing to do: it is he who is living, yet dead, who shall never die again.

Because he lives in solitude, therefore the Yogi says that his home is far away.
Your Lord is near: yet you are climbing the palm-tree to seek Him.
The Brahman priest goes from house to house and initiates people into faith:
Alas! the true fountain of life is beside you, and you have set up a stone to worship.
Kabr says: "I may never express how sweet my Lord is. Yoga and the telling of beads, virtue and vicethese are naught to Him."
Translated by Rabindranath Tagore
~ Kabir, Poem 15
,
1037:Third Charm from Masque of Queens
The owl is abroad, the bat, and the toad,
And so is the cat-a-mountain,
The ant and the mole sit both in a hole,
And the frog peeps out o' the fountain;
The dogs they do bay, and the timbrels play,
The spindle is now a turning;
The moon it is red, and the stars are fled,
But all the sky is a-burning:
The ditch is made, and our nails the spade,
With pictures full, of wax and of wool;
Their livers I stick, with needles quick;
There lacks but the blood, to make up the flood.
Quickly, Dame, then bring your part in,
Spur, spur upon little Martin,
Merrily, merrily, make him fail,
A worm in his mouth, and a thorn in his tail,
Fire above, and fire below,
With a whip in your hand, to make him go.
~ Ben Jonson,
1038:To The Fountain Of Bandusia
O fountain of Bandusia!
Whence crystal waters flow,
With garlands gay and wine I'll pay
The sacrifice I owe;
A sportive kid with budding horns
I have, whose crimson blood
Anon shall dye and sanctify
Thy cool and babbling flood.
O fountain of Bandusia!
The Dog-star's hateful spell
No evil brings into the springs
That from thy bosom well;
Here oxen, wearied by the plow,
The roving cattle here
Hasten in quest of certain rest,
And quaff thy gracious cheer.
O fountain of Bandusia!
Ennobled shalt thou be,
For I shall sing the joys that spring
Beneath yon ilex-tree.
Yes, fountain of Bandusia,
Posterity shall know
The cooling brooks that from thy nooks
Singing and dancing go.
~ Eugene Field,
1039:In the seventies I used to work in the bedroom of my flat at a little table. I worked in longhand with a fountain pen. I'd type out a draft, mark up the typescript, type it out again. Once I paid a professional to type a final draft, but I felt I was missing things I would have changed if I had done it myself. In the mid-eighties I was a grateful convert to computers. Word processing is more intimate, more like thinking itself. In retrospect, the typewriter seems a gross mechanical obstruction. I like the provisional nature of unprinted material held in the computer's memory - like an unspoken thought. I like the way sentences or passages can be endlessly reworked, and the way this faithful machine remembers all your little jottings and messages to yourself. Until, of course, it sulks and crashes. ~ Ian McEwan,
1040:Flowers
Thank God I love the Flowers!
Mute voices of the Spring,
That gladden all her bowers
With their varied blossoming;
They weave a charm around them
On each summer dale and bough,
For a Fairy train has bound them
In wreaths upon her brow.
Far up along the mountain,
And in the valleys green,
In the field, and by the fountain,
The smiling ones are seen;
Some looking up to heaven,
With eyes of deepest blue;
Some stooping down at even
To quaff the sparkling dew.
And from them all there speaketh
A language sweet and pure,
Fitted for him who seeketh
A God's nomenclature.
As tidal pulses thrill the seas,
And moments build the hours,
Heaven breathes her unvoiced mysteries
In sermons from the Flowers.
~ Charles Sangster,
1041:Home"

It would take forever to get there
but I would know it anywhere:

My white horse grazing in my blossomy field.
Its soft nostrils. The petals
falling from the trees into the stream.

The festival would be about to begin
in the dusky village in the distance. The doe
frozen at the edge of the grove:

She leaps. She vanishes. My face—
She has taken it. And my name—

(Although the plaintive lark in the tall
grass continues to say and to say it.)

Yes. This is the place.
Where my shining treasure has been waiting.
Where my shadow washes itself in my fountain.

A few graves among the roses. Some moss
on those. An ancient

bell in a steeple down the road
making no sound at all
as the monk pulls and pulls on the rope. ~ Laura Kasischke,
1042:. Sometimes, but only for a moment, I saw a faint solitary
figure with a Rosa veiled face, and carrying a faint torch, flit among the dancers, but like a dream within a
dream, like a shadow of a shadow, and I knew by an understanding born from a deeper fountain than thought,
that it was Eros himself, and that his face was veiled because no man or woman from the beginning of the
world has ever known what love is, or looked into his eyes, for Eros alone of divinities is altogether a spirit,
and hides in passions not of his essence if he would commune with a mortal heart. So that if a man love nobly
he knows love through infinite pity, unspeakable trust, unending sympathy; and if ignobly through vehement
jealousy, sudden hatred, and unappeasable desire; but unveiled love he never knows. ~ W B Yeats,
1043:Thou art One, the beginning of all computation, the base of all construction. Thou art One, and in the mystery of Thy Oneness the wise of heart are astonished, for they know not what it is. Thou art One, and Thy Oneness neither diminishes nor increases, neither lacks nor exceeds. Thou art One, but not as the One that is counted or owned, for number and change cannot reach Thee, nor attribute, nor form. Thou art One, but my mind is too feeble to set Thee a law or a limit, and therefore I say: "I will take heed to my ways, that I sin not with my tongue." Thou art One, and Thou art exalted high above abasement and falling -- not like a man, who falls when he is alone. [1568.jpg] -- from The Heart and the Fountain: An Anthology of Jewish Mystical Experiences, by Joseph Dan

~ Solomon ibn Gabirol, Thou art One
,
1044:Inner peace—you need to know who you are, what you want out of life. You have to do your own thinking, and for that you better know who you are, and not just know but be secure in it, comfortable with yourself. Plus you gotta have discipline. Stamina. And luck sure helps. A little luck counts for a lot, including our great good luck of being born into the greatest economic system ever devised. It’s not a perfect system by any means, but overall it’s responsible for tremendous human progress. In just the past century alone, we’ve seen something like a seven-to-one improvement in the standard of living. I’m not saying we don’t have problems, we’ve got a helluva lot of problems, but that’s where the genius of the free market comes in, all the drive and talent and energy that goes into solving those problems. ~ Ben Fountain,
1045: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,
1046:It was my mother who bought me green ink for the first time, along with the fountain pen she gave me as a gift to mark my graduation from high school.
When I asked ‘Why green?’ she laughed and shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe just because it’s different from black and blue.’
My father smirked. ’It’s different from black and blue!’ Madam insists that all of her things be different from those of other people.’
My mother looked at him for a few moments and then turned to me. Nowadays she had to look up at me to meet my eyes, and I had to lean down to kiss her. She said, ‘Write something, see if you like it.’
On the corner of the Alik newspaper that was delivered to our house in the afternoon for my father, I wrote, ‘Green ink is different from all other inks. I like people and things that are different. ~ Zoya Pirzad,
1047:Watching the children, he noticed two things especially. A girl of about five, and her sister, who was no more than three, wanted to drink from the pebbled concrete fountain at the playground’s edge, but it was too high for either of them, so the five-year-old…jumped up and, resting her stomach on the edge and grasping the sides, began to drink. But she was neither strong enough nor oblivious enough of the pain to hand on, and she began to slip off backward. At this, the three-year-old…advanced to her sister and, also grasping the edge of the fountain, placed her forehead against her sister’s behind, straining to hold her in place, eyes closed, body trembling, curls spilling from her cap. Her sister drank for a long time, held in position by an act as fine as Harry had ever seen on the battlefields of Europe.” Pg 32 ~ Mark Helprin,
1048:I don't know how long I've been sitting on this park bench. The light is almost all gone, but when there was light I was able to admire the statuary. A bear, a hippo, something with cloven hooves I took to be a goat. On my way I passed a fountain. The basin was dry. I looked to see if there were any pennies at the bottom. But there were only dead leaves. They're everywhere now, falling and falling, turning the world back into earth. Sometimes I forget that the world is not on the same schedule as I. That everything is not dying, or that if it is dying it will return to life, what with a little sun and the usual encouragement. Sometimes I think: I am older than this tree, older than this bench, older than the rain. And yet. I'm not older than the rain. It's been falling for years and after I go it will keep on falling. ~ Nicole Krauss,
1049:Later that night, when we left the prayer room, we felt something in Upper Room shift. Couldn't explain it, something just felt different. We knew the walls of Upper Room like the walls of our own homes. We'd soft-stepped down hallways as the choir practiced, noticing that corner in front of the instrument closet where the paint had chipped, or the tile in the ladies' room that had been laid crooked. We'd spend decades studying the splotch that looked like an elephant's ear on the ceiling above the water fountain. And we knew the exact spot on the sanctuary carpet where Elise Turner had knelt the night before she killed herself. (The more spiritual of us even swore they could still see the indented curve from her knees.) Sometimes we joked that when we died, we'd all become part of these walls, pressed down flat like wallpaper. ~ Brit Bennett,
1050:Hi, you’ve reached Faison! I’m not able to take your call right now…"

It makes for an odd sensation, watching her real-time person in the middle distance while holding her disembodied voice to his ear. It puts a frame around the situation, gives it focus, perspective. It makes him aware of himself being aware of himself, and here is a mystery that seems worth thinking about, why this stacking of awareness should even matter. Ant the moment all he knows is that there’s structure in it, a pleasing sense of poise or mental ordering. A kind of knowledge, or maybe a bridge thereto–as if existence didn’t necessarily have to be a moron’s progress of lurching from one damn this to another? As if you might aspire to some sort of context in your life, a condition he associates with adultness. Then comes the beep, and he has to talk. ~ Ben Fountain,
1051:But I am scared. Everybody's scared."
"You know what I mean, like scared scared. Like coward scared, like if you never went to begin with. But with everything you've done nobody's going to doubt you." Then she made a somewhat frantic speech about a website she found that listed how certain people had avoided Vietnam. Cheney, Four education deferments, then a hardship 3-A. Limbaugh,4-F thanks to a cyst on his ass. Pat Buchanan, 4-F. Newt Gingrich, grad school deferment. Karl Rove, did not serve. Bill O'Reilly, did not serve. John Ashcroft, did not serve. Bush, AWOL from the Air National Guard, with a check mark in the "do not volunteer" box as to service overseas.
"You see where I'm going with this?'
"Well, yeah."
"I'm just saying, those people want a war so bad, they can fight it themselves. Billy Lynn's done his part. ~ Ben Fountain,
1052:Now he laughs for real, cackling with the wicked innocence of the bright and easily bored. Staff Sergeant David Dime is a twenty-four-year-old college dropout from North Carolina who subscribes to the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, Maxim, Wired, Harper’s, Fortune, and DicE Magazine, all of which he reads in addition to three or four books a week, mostly used textbooks on history and politics that his insanely hot sister sends from Chapel Hill. There are stories that he went to college on a golf scholarship, which he denies. That he was a star quarterback in high school, which he claims not to remember, though one day a football surfaced at FOB Viper, and Dime, caught up in the moment, perhaps, nostalgia triggering some long-dormant muscle memory, uncorked a sixty-yard spiral that sailed over Day’s head into the base motor pool. ~ Ben Fountain,
1053:For the past two weeks he's been feeling so superior and smart because of all the things he knows from the war, but forget it, they are the ones in charge, these saps, these innocents, their homeland dream is the dominant force. His reality is their reality's bitch; what they don't know is more powerful than all the things he knows, and yet he's lived what he's lived and knows what he knows, which means what, something terrible and possibly fatal, he suspects. To learn what you have to learn at the war, to do what you have to do, does this make you the enemy of all that sent you to the war?

Their reality dominates, except for this: It can't save you. It won't stop any bombs or bullets. He wonders if there's a saturation point, a body count that will finally blow the homeland dream to smithereens. How much reality can unreality take? ~ Ben Fountain,
1054:There were people who called themselves Satanists who made Crowley squirm. It wasn't just the things they did, it was the way they blamed it all on Hell. They'd come up with some stomach-churning idea that no demon could have thought of in a thousand years, some dark and mindless unpleasantness that only a fully-functioning human brain could conceive, then shout "The Devil Made Me Do It" and get the sympathy of the court when the whole point was that the Devil hardly ever made anyone do anything. He didn't have to. That was what some humans found hard to understand. Hell wasn't a major reservoir of evil, any more than Heaven, in Crowley's opinion, was a fountain of goodness; they were just sides in the great cosmic chess game. Where you found the real McCoy, the real grace and the real heart-stopping evil, was right inside the human mind. ~ Terry Pratchett,
1055:Something very sinister happens to the people of a country when they begin to distrust their own reactions as deeply as they do here, and become as joyless as they have become. It is this individual uncertainty on the part of white American men and women, this inability to renew themselves at the fountain of their own lives, that makes the discussion, let alone elucidation, of any conundrum—that is, any reality—so supremely difficult. The person who distrusts himself has no touchstone for reality—for this touchstone can be only oneself. Such a person interposes between himself and reality nothing less than a labyrinth of attitudes. And these attitudes, furthermore, though the person is usually unaware of it (is unaware of so much!), are historical and public attitudes. They do not relate to the present anymore than they relate to the person. ~ James Baldwin,
1056:One might think that those who feast most often on communion with God are least hungry. They turn often from the innocent pleasures of the world to linger more directly in the presence of God through the revelation of his Word. And there they eat the Bread of Heaven and drink the Living Water by meditation and faith. But, paradoxically, it is not so that they are the least hungry saints. The opposite is the case. The strongest, most mature Christians I have ever met are the hungriest for God. It might seem that those who eat most would be least hungry. But that’s not the way it works with an inexhaustible fountain, and an infinite feast, and a glorious Lord. When you take your stand on the finished work of God in Christ, and begin to drink at the River of Life and eat the Bread of Heaven, and know that you have found the end of all your longings, ~ John Piper,
1057:author class:Jalaluddin Rumi
/Farsi & Turkish Ah, what was there in that light-giving candle that it set fire to the heart, and snatched the heart away? You who have set fire to my heart, I am consumed, O friend; come quickly, quickly! The form of the heart is not a created form, for the beauty of God manifested itself from the cheek of the heart. I have no succour save in his sugar, I have no profit save in his lip. Remember him who one dawn released this heart of mine from the chain of your tress. My soul, the first time I saw you my soul heard something from your soul. When my heart drank water from your fountain it drowned in you, and the torrent snatched me away. [1493.jpg] -- from Mystical Poems of Rumi: Volume 1, Translated by A. J. Arberry
~ what was there in that light-giving candle that it set fire to the heart, and snatched the heart away?
,
1058:Were government a mere manufacture or article of commerce, immaterial by whom it should be made or sold, we might as well employ her as another, but when we consider it as the fountain from whence the general manners and morality of a country take their rise, that the persons entrusted with the execution thereof are by their serious example an authority to support these principles, how abominably absurd is the idea of being hereafter governed by a set of men who have been guilty of forgery, perjury, treachery, theft and every species of villainy which the lowest wretches on earth could practice or invent. What greater public curse can befall any country than to be under such authority, and what greater blessing than to be delivered therefrom. The soul of any man of sentiment would rise in brave rebellion against them, and spurn them from the earth. ~ Thomas Paine,
1059:Much of life, fatherhood included, is the story of knowledge acquired too late: if only I’d known then what I know now, how much smarter, abler, stronger, I would have been. But nothing really prepares you for kids, for the swells of emotion that roll through your chest like the rumble of boulders tumbling downhill, nor for the all-enveloping labor of it, the sheer mulish endurance you need for the six or seven hundred discrete tasks that have to be done each and every day. Such a small person! Not much bigger than a loaf of bread at first, yet it takes so much to keep the whole enterprise going. Logistics, skills, materiel; the only way we really learn is by figuring it out as we go along, and even then it changes on us every day, so we’re always improvising, which is a fancy way of saying that we’re doing things we technically don’t know how to do. ~ Ben Fountain,
1060:We are conditioned to look for justice in life and when it doesn’t appear, we tend to feel anger, anxiety or frustration. Actually, it would be equally productive to search for the fountain of youth, or some such myth. Justice does not exist. It never has, and it never will. The world is simply not put together that way. Robins eat worms. That’s not fair to the worms. Spiders eat flies. That’s not fair to the flies. Cougars kill coyotes. Coyotes kill badgers. Badgers kill mice. Mice kill bugs. Bugs...You have only to look at nature to realize there is no justice in the world. Tornadoes, floods, tidal waves, draughts are all unfair. It is a mythological concept, this justice business. The world and the people in it go on being unfair every day. You can choose to be happy or unhappy, but it has nothing to do with the lack of justice you see around you. ~ Wayne W Dyer,
1061:Entering by a wide gateway, but without gates, into an inner court,
surrounded on all sides by great marble pillars supporting galleries
above, I saw a large fountain of porphyry in the middle, throwing
up a lofty column of water, which fell, with a noise as of the fusion
of all sweet sounds, into a basin beneath; overflowing which, it ran
into a single channel towards the interior of the building. Although
the moon was by this time so low in the west, that not a ray of her
light fell into the court, over the height of the surrounding buildings; yet was the court lighted by a second reflex from the sun of
other lands. For the top of the column of water, just as it spread to
fall, caught the moonbeams, and like a great pale lamp, hung high
in the night air, threw a dim memory of light (as it were) over the
court below. ~ George MacDonald,
1062:sábado, 2 de mayo de 2015 23:38:32 Red brick exterior, fountain out front, pool and hot tub in back, more bedrooms and bathrooms than we’ll ever use. ========== Mis recortes - Tu subrayado en la posición 73-74 | Añadido el sábado, 2 de mayo de 2015 23:38:54 That hurt was reserved just for her. I wondered if her nose was tiny, upturned and dotted with freckles like mine. ========== Mis recortes - Tu subrayado en la posición 71-72 | Añadido el sábado, 2 de mayo de 2015 23:39:07 But Avery arouses in me things I’ve never felt. It’s insane. She’s not even mine, and I’m acting like an over-protective alpha male. ========== Mis recortes - Tu subrayado en la posición 69-70 | Añadido el sábado, 2 de mayo de 2015 23:39:16 She’s also blessed with a flawless olive complexion, while I’m pale except for the fine dusting of freckles across the bridge of my nose and top of my ~ Anonymous,
1063:The Creator sat upon the throne, thinking. Behind him stretched the illimitable continent of heaven, steeped in a glory of light and color; before him rose the black night of Space, like a wall. His mighty bulk towered rugged and mountain-like into the zenith, and His divine head blazed there like a distant sun. At His feet stood three colossal figures, diminished to extinction, almost, by contrast -- archangels -- their heads level with His ankle-bone. When the Creator had finished thinking, He said, "I have thought. Behold!" He lifted His hand, and from it burst a fountain-spray of fire, a million stupendous suns, which clove the blackness and soared, away and away and away, diminishing in magnitude and intensity as they pierced the far frontiers of Space, until at last they were but as diamond nail heads sparkling under the domed vast roof of the universe. ~ Mark Twain,
1064:In this fallen world, and in their fallen lives, those who are alienated from God are a part of this age, which is now passing. It has no future and there are intimations of that in the depths of human consciousness where a tangle of contradictions lie, for we are made for meaning but find only emptiness, made as moral beings but are estranged from what is holy, made to understand but are thwarted in so many of our quests to know. These are the sure signs of a reality out of joint with itself. This is what, in fact, points to something else. These contradictions are unresolved in the absence of that age to come which is rooted in the triune God of whom Scripture speaks. He it is who not only sustains all of life, directing it all to its appointed end, but who also is the measure of what is enduringly true and right, and the fountain of all meaning, purpose, and hope. ~ John Piper,
1065:Without ever exactly putting his mind to it, he's come to believe that loss is the standard trajectory. Something new appears in the world-a baby, say, or a car or a house, or an individual shows some special talent-with luck and huge expenditures of soul and effort you might keep the project stoked for a while, but eventually, ultimately, its going down. This is a truth so brutally self-evident that he can't fathom why it's not more widely percieved, hence his contempt for the usual public shock and outrage when a particular situation goes to hell. The war is fucked? Well, duh. Nine-eleven? Slow train coming. They hate our freedoms? Yo, they hate our actual guts! Billy suspects his fellow Americans secretly know better, but something in the land is stuck on teenage drama, on extravagant theatrics of ravaged innocence and soothing mud wallows of self-justifying pity. ~ Ben Fountain,
1066:Hildegard. I am Sapientia. God’s Wisdom. A ray of light from her heart touched mine. Guda had grown into a beauty with her golden curls and emerald eyes, crowned like Adelheid. She offered me a cup overflowing with blood-red wine, her eyes brimming in joyful welcome. Know me, Hildegard. I am Ecclesia, the true and hidden Church. From between these two women, a third appeared, an utter stranger, and so beautiful. Crowned like the others, her long black hair swept to her waist. Her silk gown was as red as the Virgin’s beating heart, and her smile gleamed in tenderness as she stretched out her arms. Hildegard, seek me. My name is Caritas, Divine Love. Before me this trinity of women blazed, the sacred shimmering through them. My fever was broken by the vision of these three divine maidens dancing around a flowing fountain of pure grace. Three women who formed the face of God. ~ Mary Sharratt,
1067:The rats had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through which they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and hidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball - when the one woman who had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran into evening, so much life ran in the city ran into death according to rule, time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all things ran their course ~ Charles Dickens,
1068:Amans Amare
A cottage small be mine, with porch
Enwreathed with ivy green,
And brightsome flowers with dew-filled bells,
’Mid brown old wattles seen.
And one to wait at shut of eve,
With eyes as fountain clear,
And braided hair, and simple dress,
My homeward step to hear.
On summer eves to sing old songs,
And talk o’er early vows,
While stars look down like angels’ eyes
Amid the leafy boughs.
When Spring flowers peep from flossy cells,
And bright-winged parrots call,
In forest paths be ours to rove
Till purple evenings fall.
The curtains closed, by taper clear
To read some page divine,
On winter nights, the hearth beside,
Her soft, warm hand in mine.
And so to glide through busy life,
Like some small brook alone
That winds its way ’mid grassy knolls,
Its music all its own.
~ Daniel Henry Deniehy,
1069:With reference to the elect we might distinguish between three classes. First, there are those who are satisfied with God’s will, as it is, and do not murmur against God, but rather believe that they are elected. They do not want to be damned. Secondly, there are those who submit to God’s will and are satisfied with it in their hearts. At least they desire to be satisfied, if God does not wish to save, but reject them. Thirdly, there are those who really are ready to be condemned if God should will this. These are cleansed most of all of their own will and carnal wisdom. And these experience the truth of Canticles 8:6: “Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death.” Such love is always joined with cross and tribulation, for without it the soul becomes lax, and does not seek after God, nor thirst after God, who is the Fountain of Life. ~ Martin Luther,
1070:Jim Brown
While I was handling Dom Pedro
I got at the thing that divides the race between men who are
For singing "Turkey in the straw" or "There is a fountain filled with blood" -(Like Rile Potter used to sing it over at Concord);
For cards, or for Rev. Peet's lecture on the holy land;
For skipping the light fantastic, or passing the plate;
For Pinafore, or a Sunday school cantata;
For men, or for money;
For the people or against them.
This was it:
Rev. Peet and the Social Purity Club,
Headed by Ben Pantier's wife,
Went to the Village trustees,
And asked them to make me take Dom Pedro
From the barn of Wash McNeely, there at the edge of town,
To a barn outside of the corporation,
On the ground that it corrupted public morals.
Well, Ben Pantier and Fiddler Jones saved the day -They thought it a slam on colts.
~ Edgar Lee Masters,
1071:Let’s make the world brighter for that is all we need to be better!
If I am bright and you are bright then the world will be brighter
If I am dark and you are dark then the world will be darker
Let’s make the world brighter for brightness is all we need to be better!


Let’s make the world relevant for that is all we need to be relevant
If I am relevant and you are relevant then we shall all be relevant
If I am irrelevant and you are relevant then I will disturb your relevance
Let’s make the world relevant for that is the epitome of life!

Let’s make the world faithful for faithfulness is all we need to be faithful!
If I am faithful and you are faithful then the world will be faithful
If I am unfaithful and you are faithful then I will disturb your faithfulness
Let’s make the world faithful for faithfulness is the fountain of peace ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,
1072:Love In A Cottage
A cottage small be mine, with porch
Enwreathed with ivy green,
And brightsome flowers with dew-filled bells,
'Mid brown old wattles seen.
And one to wait at shut of eve,
With eyes as fountain clear,
And braided hair, and simple dress,
My homeward step to hear.
On summer eves to sing old songs,
And talk o'er early vows,
While stars look down like angels' eyes
Amid the leafy boughs.
When Spring flowers peep from flossy cells,
And bright-winged parrots call,
In forest paths be ours to rove
Till purple evenings fall.
The curtains closed, by taper clear
To read some page divine,
On winter nights, the hearth beside,
Her soft, warm hand in mine.
And so to glide through busy life,
Like some small brook alone,
That winds its way 'mid grassy knolls,
Its music all its own.
~ Daniel Henry Deniehy,
1073: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,
1074: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,
1075:As the room filled with tart, pleasant fumes Esther had never smelled before, her head became light with joy. These paints and and brushes and canvases were the tools real artists used. In the short hour left, inspired by Van Gogh, she chose a corner of the room as her subject and began to paint in tiny, furious brush strokes. To her amazement, yellow and blue combined into a vibrant green, red and blue turned a pulsating purple, and yellow and red mixed into a glowing orange. But beyond the colors, some new magic took over. Esther's eyes, clear as if the cumin had never blinded her, captured shapes and shadows and threw them on the canvas without effort, without thought. The urge to paint was a fountain that coursed through her, her fingers only a conduit to something so big it was hard to imagine her little heart contained it. Surely, this was the work of God. He must be guiding her hand. ~ Talia Carner,
1076:Christianity is not only the revelation of truth, but also the fountain of holiness under the unceasing inspiration of the spotless example of its Founder, which is more powerful than all the systems of moral philosophy. It attests its divine origin as much by its moral workings as by its pure doctrines. By its own inherent energy, without noise and commotion, without the favor of circumstance—nay, in spite of all possible obstacles, it has gradually wrought the greatest moral reformation, we should rather say, regeneration of society which history has ever seen while its purifying, ennobling, and cheering effects upon the private life of countless individuals are beyond the reach of the historian, though recorded in God’s book of life to be opened on the day of judgment. To appreciate this work, we must first review the moral condition of heathenism in its mightiest embodiment in history. ~ Philip Schaff,
1077:Just say it, she thought. Say what everyone in this bunker is thinking. Say what we all know to be true. The truth that we are all going to die down here, and death is the end. Nobody wakes up to a heaven or paradise. Your life will be gone. You will be gone. Forever. Uncover the truth. Tear off the bandages of delusion. Open your hearts and minds to the real world. We were doomed the day we were born. We lived and we will die and the only immortals are the people who did something worth remembering while they lived. My genetics are prime. I am pleasing to the eyes of man and machine. A dripping fountain of pleasure. Their organic sanctuary. And in time? Aging. Fading. Graying. What am I? Who am I? What makes me human? Emotions? My conscience? The soul is an old testament myth. No one shall ascend anywhere except into annihilation. The dust of earth and stars are the only eternals, she said. ~ C J Anderson,
1078:Very slowly using two fingers, Annabeth drew her dagger. Instead of dropping it, she tossed it as far as she could into the water.

Octavian made a squeaking sound. "What was that for? I didn't say toss it! That could've been evidence. Or spoils of war!"

Annabeth tried for a dumb-blonde smile, like: Oh, silly me. Nobody who knew her would have been fooled. But Octavian seemed to buy it. He huffed in exasperation.

"You other two..." He pointed his blade a Hazel and Piper. "Put your weapons on the dock. No funny bus--"

All around the Romans, Charleston Harbor erupted like a Las Vegas fountain putting on a show. When the wall of seawater subsided, the three Romans were in the bay, spluttering and frantically trying to stay afloat in their armor. Percy stood on the dock, holding Annabeth's dagger.

"You dropped this," he said, totally poker-faced. ~ Rick Riordan,
1079:But it was the second guy who caught my eye. Like the girl, he, too, paused by the door, seeming even more wary than she looked. The sunlight streaming in through the windows highlighted the rich honey in his dark chocolate brown hair, even as it cast his face in shadow. The tan skin of his arms resembled marble—hard, but smooth and supple at the same time.
He must have passed through the mist spewed up by the fountain outside, because his black T-shirt was wet in places and the damp patches clung to his skin. The wetness allowed me to see just how muscled his chest was. Oh, yeah, I totally ogled that part of him, right up until I spotted the silver cuff on his right wrist.
Given the angle, I couldn’t tell what crest was stamped into the metal, but I glanced at the others, who also wore cuffs. I sighed. So they belonged to some Family then. Wonderful. This day just kept getting better. ~ Jennifer Estep,
1080:Men have a great deal of pleasure in human knowledge, in studies of natural things; but this is nothing to that joy which arises from divine light shining into the soul. This spiritual light is the dawning of the light of glory in the heart. There is nothing so powerful as this to support persons in affliction, and to give the mind peace and brightness in this stormy and dark world. This knowledge will wean from the world, and raise the inclination to heavenly things. It will turn the heart to God as the fountain of good, and to choose him for the only portion. This light, and this only, will bring the soul to a saving close with Christ. It conforms the heart to the gospel, mortifies its enmity and opposition against the scheme of salvation therein revealed: it causes the heart to embrace the joyful tidings, and entirely to adhere to, and acquiesce in the revelation of Christ as our Savior. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
1081:Noon
Noon! and in the garden bower
The hot air quivers o’er the grass,
The little lake is smooth as glass
And still so heavily the hour
Drags, that scarce the proudest flower
Pressed upon its burning bed
Has strength to lift a languid head:
—Rose and fainting violet
By the water’s margin set
Swoon and sink as they were dead
Though their weary leaves be fed
With the foam-drops of the pool
Where it trembles dark and cool
Wrinkled by the fountain spraying
O’er it. And the honey-bee
Hums his drowsy melody
And wanders in his course a-straying
Through the sweet and tangled glade
With his golden mead o’erladen,
Where beneath the pleasant shade
Of the darkling boughs a maiden
—Milky limb and fiery tress,
All at sweetest random laid—
Slumbers, drunken with the excess
Of the noontide’s loveliness.
~ Clive Staples Lewis,
1082:The stars may dissolve, and the fountain of light
May sink into ne'er ending chaos and night,
Our mansions must fall, and earth vanish away,
But thy courage O Erin! may never decay.

See! the wide wasting ruin extends all around,
Our ancestors' dwellings lie sunk on the ground,
Our foes ride in triumph throughout our domains,
And our mightiest heroes lie stretched on the plains.

Ah! dead is the harp which was wont to give pleasure,
Ah! sunk is our sweet country's rapturous measure,
But the war note is waked, and the clangour of spears,
The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears.

Ah! where are the heroes! triumphant in death,
Convulsed they recline on the blood sprinkled heath,
Or the yelling ghosts ride on the blast that sweeps by,
And 'my countrymen! vengeance!' incessantly cry.

OCTOBER, 1809

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Irishmans Song
,
1083:An Unmarked Festival
There's a feast undated, yet
Both our true lives hold it fast,-Even the day when we first met.
What a great day came and passed,
--Unknown then, but known at last.
And we met: You knew not me,
Mistress of your joys and fears;
Held my hand that held the key
Of the treasure of your years,
Of the fountain of your tears.
For you knew not it was I,
And I knew not it was you.
We have learnt, as days went by.
But a flower struck root and grew
Underground, and no one knew.
Day of days! Unmarked it rose,
In whose hours we were to meet;
And forgotten passed. Who knows,
Was earth cold or sunny, Sweet,
At the coming of your feet?
One mere day, we thought; the measure
Of such days the year fulfills.
Now, how dearly would we treasure
Something from its fields, its rills,
And its memorable hills.
~ Alice Meynell,
1084:Fontaine, Je Ne Boirai Pas De Ton Eau!
I know I might have lived in such a way
As to have suffered only pain:
Loving not man nor dog;
Not money, even; feeling
Toothache perhaps, but never more than an hour away
From skill and novocaine;
Making no contacts, dealing with life through Agents, drinking
one cocktail, betting two dollars, wearing raincoats in the
rain.
Betrayed at length by no one but the fog
Whispering to the wing of the plane.
"Fountain," I have cried to that unbubbling well, "I will not
drink of thy water!" Yet I thirst
For a mouthful of—not to swallow, only to rinse my mouth in
peace.
And while the eyes of the past condemn,
The eyes of the present narrow into assignation. And—
worst—
The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed;
I shall get no help from them.
~ Edna St. Vincent Millay,
1085:And every one of those wrong things is a corollary of ‘jealousy.’ Jubal, I couldn’t believe it. I still don’t grok ‘jealousy’ in fullness, it seems insanity to me. When I first learned what this ecstasy was, my first thought was that I wanted to share it, share it at once with all my water brothers—directly with those female, indirectly by inviting more sharing with those male. The notion of trying to keep this never-failing fountain to myself would have horrified me, had I thought of it. But I was incapable of thinking it. And in perfect corollary I had no slightest wish to attempt this miracle with anyone I did not already cherish and trust—Jubal, I am physically unable even to attempt love with a female who has not shared water with me. And this runs all through the Nest. Psychic impotence—unless spirits blend as flesh blends.” Jubal was thinking mournfully that it was a fine system—for angels— ~ Robert A Heinlein,
1086:[The] term ‘decide’ has always seemed to me to be quite wrong…A sinner does not ‘decide’ for Christ; the sinner ‘flies’ to Christ in utter helplessness and despair saying —
Foul, I to the fountain fly,
Wash me, Saviour, or I die.
No man truly comes to Christ unless he flies to Him as his only refuge and hope, his only way of escape from the accusations of conscience and the condemnation of God’s holy law. Nothing else is satisfactory. If a man says that having thought about the matter and having considered all sides he has on the whole decided for Christ, and if he has done so without any emotion or feeling, I cannot regard him as a man who has been regenerated. The convicted sinner no more ‘decides’ for Christ than the poor drowning man ‘decides’ to take hold of that rope that is thrown to him and suddenly provides him with the only means of escape. The term is entirely inappropriate. ~ D Martyn Lloyd Jones,
1087:SEEN ACROSS TEN MILES OF sunlit water, Lorbanery was green, green as the bright moss by a fountain’s rim. Nearby, it broke up into leaves, and tree-trunks, and shadows, and roads, and houses, and the faces and clothing of people, and dust, and all that goes to make up an island inhabited by men. Yet still, over all, it was green: for every acre of it that was not built or walked upon was given up to the low, round-topped hurbah trees, on the leaves of which feed the little worms that spin the silk that is made into thread and woven by the men and women and children of Lorbanery. At dusk the air there is full of small grey bats who feed on the little worms. They eat many, but are suffered to do so and are not killed by the silk-weavers, who indeed account it a deed of very evil omen to kill the grey-winged bats. For if human beings live off the worms, they say, surely small bats have the right to do so. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,
1088:Very slowly using two fingers, Annabeth drew her dagger. Instead of dropping it, she tossed it as far as she could into the water.

Octavian made a squeaking sound. "What was that for? I didn't say toss it! That could've been evidence. Or spoils of war!"

Annabeth tried for a dumb-blonde smile, like: Oh, silly me. Nobody who knew her would have been fooled. But Octavian seemed to buy it. He huffed in exasperation.

"You other two..." He pointed his blade a Hazel and Piper. "Put your weapons on the dock. No funny bus--"

All around the Romans, Charleston Harbor erupted like a Las Vegas fountain putting on a show. When the wall of seawater subsided, the three Romans were in the bay, spluttering and frantically trying to stay afloat in their armor. Percy stood on the dock, holding Annabeth's dagger.

"You dropped this," he said, totally poker-faced.
-Heroes of Olympus ~ Rick Riordan,
1089:Ah! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain,
And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze,
And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain,
'Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.

But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection,
Which scarce seemed to break on the stillness of eve,
Though the time it is past!--yet the dear recollection,
For aye in the heart of thy [Percy] must live.

Yet he hears thy dear voice in the summer winds sighing,
Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear,
When the hope-winged moments athwart him are flying,
And he thinks of the friend to his bosom so dear.--

And thou dearest friend in his bosom for ever
Must reign unalloyed by the fast rolling year,
He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh! never
Canst thou cease to be loved by a heart so sincere.

AUGUST, 1810.

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Song. To [Harriet]
,
1090:Spread over what must have been at least a hectare or two was the most beautiful garden he had ever seen.
There was an entire miniature forest of cedar, cypress, and other sweet-smelling pines that couldn't normally live in the hot and dry Agrabah. There were formal rows of roses and other delicately petaled flowers. There was a garden just of mountain plants. There was a pool filled with flowering white lilies and their pads, and pink lotuses taller than most men. There was a fountain as big as a house and shaped like an egg. There was a delicate white aviary that looked like a giant's birdcage. Strangely, there were no birds in it.
And everywhere, entwined around every tiny building and every balustrade and every topiary ball, was jasmine. White jasmine, pink jasmine, yellow jasmine, night-flowering jasmine... the smell was heady enough to make Aladdin feel a little drunk.
Jasmine.
This was her garden. ~ Liz Braswell,
1091:We weep for characters, and then we go brush our teeth and have to face the fact that the world is warming at such a rapid pace that a terrifying number of amphibians are vanishing every month. And so through plays, through soccer games, through novels, through movies, through video games, through political elections - through story - we rehearse feelings we might eventually need in our own lives. ... Through drama, in the moments of greatest suspense, when the hero is hanging by a support from above, swaying to and fro ... we rehearse anxiety and longing more profoundly than any other emotions. ... And longing is the reach, the extension, the wild desire to attain the next stable platform at the end of the high wire. It's the hope against hope that the water shooting out of the fountain will stay aloft forever. (Anthony Doerr, "The Sword of Damocles: On Suspense, Shower Murders, and Shooting People on the Beach") ~ Christopher R Beha,
1092:If she has her way ...

Willa Davis is wrangling puppies when Keane Winters stalks into her pet shop with frustration in his chocolate-brown eyes and a pink bedazzled cat carrier in his hand. He needs a kitty sitter, stat. But the last thing Willa needs is to rescue a guy who doesn’t even remember her ...

He’ll get nothing but coal in his stocking.

Saddled with his great-aunt’s Feline from Hell, Keane is desperate to leave her in someone else’s capable hands. But in spite of the fact that he’s sure he’s never seen the drop-dead-gorgeous pet shop owner before, she seems to be mad at him ...

Unless he tempers “naughty” with a special kind of nice ...

Willa can’t deny that Keane’s changed since high school: he’s less arrogant, for one thing—but can she trust him not to break her heart again? It’s time to throw a coin in the fountain, make a Christmas wish—and let the mistletoe do its work ... ~ Jill Shalvis,
1093:Inexorable Deities
Deities!
Inexorable revealers,
Give me strength to endure
The gifts of the Muses,
Daughters of Memory.
When the sky is blue as Minerva's eyes
Let me stand unshaken;
When the sea sings to the rising sun
Let me be unafraid;
When the meadow lark falls like a meteor
Through the light of afternoon,
An unloosened fountain of rapture,
Keep my heart from spilling
Its vital power;
When at the dawn
The dim souls of crocuses hear the calls
Of waking birds,
Give me to live but master the loveliness.
Keep my eyes unharmed from splendors
Unveiled by you,
And my ears at peace
Filled no less with the music
Of Passion and Pain, growth and change.
But O ye sacred and terrible powers,
Reckless of my mortality,
Strengthen me to behold a face,
To know the spirit of a beloved one
Yet to endure, yet to dare!
~ Edgar Lee Masters,
1094:/Farsi & Turkish a voice out of this world calls on our souls not to wait any more get ready to move to the original home your real home your real birth place is up here with the heavens let your soul take a flight like a happy phoenix you've been tied up your feet in the mud your body roped to a log break loose your ties get ready for the final flight make your last journey from this strange world soar for the heights where there is no more separation of you and your home God has created your wings not to be dormant as long as you are alive you must try more and more to use your wings to show you're alive these wings of yours are filled with quests and hopes if they are not used they will wither away they will soon decay you may not like what I'm going to tell you you are stuck now you must seek nothing but the source [2079.jpg] -- from Rumi: Fountain of Fire, Translated by Nader Khalili

~ Jalaluddin Rumi, Seeking the Source
,
1095:how many ghosts I was going to encounter. That Serra guy had to have a bunch of Native Americans mad at him—particularly considering that corporal punishment thing—and I hadn’t any doubt I was going to encounter all of them. And yet, when my mom and I walked through the school’s wide front archway into the courtyard around which the Mission had been constructed, I didn’t see a single person who looked as if he or she didn’t belong there. There were a few tourists snapping pictures of the impressive fountain, a gardener working diligently at the base of a palm tree—even at my new school there were palm trees—a priest walking in silent contemplation down the airy breezeway. It was a beautiful, restful place—especially for a building that was so old and had to have seen so much death. I couldn’t understand it. Where were all the ghosts? Maybe they were afraid to hang around the place. I was a little afraid, looking up at that crucifix. ~ Meg Cabot,
1096:...why not let nature show you a few things? Cutting grass and pulling weeds can be a way of life... Lilacs on a bush are better than orchids. And dandelions and devil grass are better! Why? Because they bend you over and turn you away from all the people and the town for a little while and sweat you and get you down where you remember you got a nose again. And when you're all to yourself that way, you're really yourself for a little while; you get to thinking things through, alone. Gardening is the handiest excuse for being a philosopher. Nobody guesses, nobody accuses, nobody knows, but there you are, Plato in the peonies, Socrates force-growing his own hemlock. A man toting a sack of blood manure across his lawn is kin to Atlas letting the world spin easy on his shoulder. As Samuel Spaudling, Esquire, once said, 'Dig in the earth, delve in the soul.' Spin those mower blades, Bill, and walk in the spray of the Fountain of Youth. ~ Ray Bradbury,
1097:O Holy Jesus, Son of the most high God, Thou that wert scourged at a pillar, stretched and nailed upon a cross for the sins of the world, unite me to Thy cross, and fill my soul with Thy holy, humble, and suffering spirit. O Fountain of Mercy, Thou that didst save the thief upon the cross, save me from the guilt of a sinful life; Thou that didst cast seven devils out of Mary Magdalene, cast out of my heart all evil thoughts and wicked tempers. O Giver of Life, Thou that didst raise Lazarus from the dead, raise up my soul from the death and darkness of sin. Thou that didst give to Thy Apostles power over unclean spirits, give me power over mine own heart. Thou that didst appear unto Thy disciples when the doors were shut, do Thou appear to me in the secret apartment of my heart. Thou that didst cleanse the lepers, heal the sick, and give sight to the blind, cleanse my heart, heal the disorders of my soul, and fill me with heavenly light.19 ~ Anonymous,
1098:He knew it would take as many years as could think of now to forget the tracks, no matter how deeply buried. Some morning in autumn, spring, or winter he kn he’d wake and, if he didn’t go near the window, if he just lay deep and snug and warm, in his bed, he would hear it, faint and far away.
And around the bend of the morning street, up the avenue, between the even rows of sycamore, elm and maple, it the quietness before the start of living, past his house h would hear the familiar sounds. Like the ticking of a doe the rumble of a dozen metal barrels rolling, the hum of single immense dragonfly at dawn. Like a merry-go-round like a small electrical storm, the color of blue lightning, coming, here, and gone. The trolley’s chime! The hiss like a sc fountain spigot as it let down and took up its step, and starting of the dream again, as on it sailed along its way, traveling a hidden and buried track to some hidden and buried destination. ~ Ray Bradbury,
1099:OH HAPPY DAY when in you presence,
my ruler, I shall die!
When near the sugar-treasure melting
like sugar I shall die!
Out of my dust will grow a thousand
of centrifolias
When in the shade of yonder cypress
in gardens I shall die.
And when you pour into my goblet
the bitter drink of death,
I'll kiss the goblet full of joy, dear,
and drunken I shall die.
I may turn yellow like the autumn
when people speak of death,
Thanks to your smiling lip: like springtime
and smiling shall I die.
I have died many times, but your breath
made me alive again,
Should I die thus a hundred more times
I happily shall die!
A child that dies in mother's bosom,
that's how I am, my friend,
For in the bosom of His Mercy
and kindness, I shall die.
Say: Where would death be for the lovers?
Impossible is that!
For in the fountain of the Water
of Life - there I shall die! ~ Rumi,
1100:Brian stood by the fountain; his eyes locked on her while she inspected the plants and inhaled their sweet scents. He didn’t move as he watched her with a predatory hunger. She smiled as she walked back toward him; her fingers itching with the impulse to touch him. Her skin became electrified with her need for him. When she was only a foot away from him, he pulled something from his pocket and went down onto one knee before her. Abby froze, and her hand flew to her mouth as he opened the box to reveal the large diamond within. Tears burned in her eyes as the fading sun lit his hair and eyes and caressed his chiseled body. “I don’t know how long I’ll have to work with Ronan, but I can promise you that when it’s done, I will take you everywhere you ask to go and live out every one of your dreams with you. I will love you every second of every day for the rest of our lives, and I will protect and cherish our children with everything I am.” Her ~ Brenda K Davies,
1101:Does Britannia, when she sleeps, dream? Is America her dream?-- in which all that cannot pass in the metropolitan Wakefulness is allow'd Expression away in the restless Slumber of these Provinces, and on West-ward, wherever 'tis not yet mapp'd, nor written down, nor ever, by the majority of Mankind, seen,-- serving as a very Rubbish-Tip for subjunctive Hopes, for all that may yet be true,-- Earthly Paradise, Fountain of Youth, Realms of Prester John, Christ's Kingdom, ever behind the sunset, safe til the next Territory to the West be seen and recorded, measur'd and tied in, back into the Net-Work of Points already known, that slowly triangulates its Way into the Continent, changing all from subjunctive to declarative, reducing Possibilities to Simplicities that serve the ends of Governments,-- winning away from the realm of the Sacred, its Borderlands one by one, and assuming them unto the bare mortal World that is our home, and our Despair. ~ Thomas Pynchon,
1102:Let us find the dam snack bar," Zoe said. "We should eat while we can."
Grover cracked a smile. "The dam snack bar?"
Zoe blinked. "Yes. What is funny?"
"Nothing," Grover said, trying to keep a straight face. "I could use some dam french
fries."
Even Thalia smiled at that. "And I need to use the dam restroom."
Maybe it was the fact that we were so tired and strung out emotionally, but I started
cracking up, and Thalia and Grover joined in, while Zoe just looked at us. "I do not
understand."
"I want to use the dam water fountain," Grover said.
"And…" Thalia tried to catch her breath. "I want to buy a dam T-shirt."
I busted up, and I probably would've kept laughing all day, but then I heard a noise:
"Moooo."
The smile melted off my face. I wondered if the noise was just in my head, but Grover
had stopped laughing too. He was looking around, confused. "Did I just hear a cow?"
"A dam cow?" Thalia laughed. ~ Rick Riordan,
1103:To Edward Lear: On His Travels In Greece
Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls
Of water, sheets of summer glass,
The long divine Peneian pass,
The vast Akrokeraunian walls,
Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,
With such a pencil, such a pen,
You shadow forth to distant men,
I read and felt that I was there:
And trust me while I turn'd the page,
And track'd you still on classic ground,
I grew in gladness till I found
My spirits in the golden age.
For me the torrent ever pour'd
And glisten'd -- here and there alone
The broad-limb'd gods at random thrown
By fountain urns; -- and Naiads oar'd
A glimmering shoulder under gloom
Of cavern pillars; on the swell
The silver lily heaved and fell;
And many a slope was rich in bloom
From him that on the mountain lea
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks,
To him who sat upon the rocks,
And fluted to the morning sea.
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,
1104:The Fire Bug flared up at that. “You want to know what bugs me?” it said indignantly. “Nobodaddy’s friendly about fire. Oh, it’s fine in its place, people say, it makes a nice glow in a room, but keep an eye on it in case it gets out of control, and always put it out before you leave. Never mind how much it’s needed; a few forests burned by wildfires, the occasional volcanic eruption, and there goes our reputation. Water, on the other hand!—hah!—there’s no limit to the praise Water gets. Floods, rains, burst pipes, they make no difference. Water is everyone’s favorite. And when they call it the Fountain of Life!—bah!—well, that just bugs me to bits.” The Fire Bug dissolved briefly into a little cloud of angry, buzzing sparks, then came together again. “Fountain of Life, indeed,” it hissed. “What an idea. Life is not a drip. Life is a flame. What do you imagine the sun is made of? Raindrops? I don’t think so. Life is not wet, young man. Life burns. ~ Salman Rushdie,
1105:Every person who is Fountain-blessed demonstrates a remarkable power, and sometimes more than one. They keep their lore secret from the world, except for some general principles that I will speak on. The terms used to describe the two major ways in which they draw in power are “rigor” and “vigor.” The term “rigor” implies severity and strictness. The magic comes through meticulous and persistent adherence to some regimented craft or routine. These individuals are iron-willed and self-disciplined to a degree very uncommon amongst their fellows. The term “vigor” implies effort, energy, and enthusiasm. To do a task out of the love of it, not for ambition’s sake alone. These two concepts mark the twin horses by which the magic of the Fountain can be drawn. Why one individual may prefer one to the other or whether there is difference in the efficacy of these methods remains, to the rest of us, a mystery.   —Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain ~ Jeff Wheeler,
1106:He knew it would take as many years as he could think of now to forget the tracks, no matter how deeply buried. Some morning in autumn, spring, or winter he knew he’d wake and, if he didn’t go near the window, if he just lay deep and snug and warm, in his bed, he would hear it, faint and far away.
And around the bend of the morning street, up the avenue, between the even rows of sycamore, elm and maple, it the quietness before the start of living, past his house he would hear the familiar sounds. Like the ticking of a clock, the rumble of a dozen metal barrels rolling, the hum of single immense dragonfly at dawn. Like a merry-go-round like a small electrical storm, the color of blue lightning, coming, here, and gone. The trolley’s chime! The hiss like a soda-fountain spigot as it let down and took up its step, and the starting of the dream again, as on it sailed along its way, traveling a hidden and buried track to some hidden and buried destination. ~ Ray Bradbury,
1107:If we hadn’t our bewitching autumn foliage, we should still have to credit the weather with one feature which compensates for all its bullying vagaries-the ice storm: when a leafless tree is clothed with ice from the bottom to the top – ice that is as bright and clear as crystal; when every bough and twig is strung with ice-beads, frozen dew-drops, and the whole tree sparkles cold and white, like the Shah of Persia’s diamond plume. Then the wind waves the branches and the sun comes out and turns all those myriads of beads and drops to prisms that glow and burn and flash with all manner of colored fires, which change and change again with inconceivable rapidity from blue to red, from red to green, and green to gold-the tree becomes a spraying fountain, a very explosion of dazzling jewels; and it stands there the acme, the climax, the supremest possibility in art or nature, of bewildering, intoxicating, intolerable magnificence. One cannot make the words too strong. ~ Mark Twain,
1108:The Song Of A Man Who Has Come Through
Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!
A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.
If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!
If only I am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift!
If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am borrowed
By the fine, fine wind that takes its course though the chaos of the world
Like a fine, and exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted;
If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge
Diven by invisible split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the
Hesperides.
Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,
I would be a good fountain, a good well-head,
Would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.
What is the knocking?
What is the knocking at the door in the night?
It's somebody wants to do us harm.
No, no, it is the three strange angels.
Admit them, admit them.
~ David Herbert Lawrence,
1109:Permanence
Set within a desert lone,
Circled by an arid sea,
Stands a figure carved in stone,
Where a fountain used to be.
Two abraded, pleading hands
Held below a shapeless mouth,
Human-like the fragment stands,
Tortured by perpetual drouth.
Once the form was drenched with spray,
Deluged with the rainbow flushes;
Surplus water dashed away
To the lotus and the rushes.
Time was clothed in rippling fashion,.
Opulence of light and air,
Beauty changing into passion
Every hour and everywhere.
And the yearning of that race
Was for something deep and tender,
Life replete with power, with grace,
Touched with vision and with splendour.
Now no rain dissolves and cools,
Dew is even as a dream,
The enticing far-off pools
In a mirage only seem.
All the traces that remain,
Of the longings of that land,
Are two hands that plead in vain
Filled with burning sand.
~ Duncan Campbell Scott,
1110:For my nymphet I needed a diminutive with a lyrical lilt to it. One of the most limpid and luminous letters is "L". The suffix "-ita" has a lot of Latin tenderness, and this I required too. Hence: Lolita. However, it should not be pronounced as you and most Americans pronounce it: Low-lee-ta, with a heavy, clammy "L" and a long "o". No, the first syllable should be as in "lollipop", the "L" liquid and delicate, the "lee" not too sharp. Spaniards and Italians pronounce it, of course, with exactly the necessary note of archness and caress. Another consideration was the welcome murmur of its source name, the fountain name: those roses and tears in "Dolores." My little girl's heartrending fate had to be taken into account together with the cuteness and limpidity. Dolores also provided her with another, plainer, more familiar and infantile diminutive: Dolly, which went nicely with the surname "Haze," where Irish mists blend with a German bunny—I mean, a small German hare. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
1111:For two days we explored Rome, a city that is both a living organism and a fossil. Bleached structures from antiquity lay like dried bones, embedded in pulsating cables and thrumming traffic, the arteries of modern life. We visited the Pantheon, the Roman Forum, the Sistine Chapel. My instinct was to worship, to venerate. That was how I felt toward the whole city: that it should be behind glass, adored from a distance, never touched, never altered. My companions moved through the city differently, aware of its significance but not subdued by it. They were not hushed by the Trevi Fountain; they were not silenced by the Colosseum. Instead, as we moved from one relic to the next, they debated philosophy—Hobbes and Descartes, Aquinas and Machiavelli. There was a kind of symbiosis in their relationship to these grand places: they gave life to the ancient architecture by making it the backdrop of their discourse, by refusing to worship at its altar as if it were a dead thing. ~ Tara Westover,
1112:Sometimes It Happens
And sometimes it happens that you are friends and then
You are not friends,
And friendship has passed.
And whole days are lost and among them
A fountain empties itself.
And sometimes it happens that you are loved and then
You are not loved,
And love is past.
And whole days are lost and among them
A fountain empties itself into the grass.
And sometimes you want to speak to her and then
You do not want to speak,
Then the opportunity has passed.
Your dreams flare up, they suddenly vanish.
And also it happens that there is nowhere to go and then
There is somewhere to go,
Then you have bypassed.
And the years flare up and are gone,
Quicker than a minute.
So you have nothing.
You wonder if these things matter and then
As soon you begin to wonder if these things matter
They cease to matter,
And caring is past.
And a fountain empties itself into the grass.
~ Brian Patten,
1113:The Dark Girl's Rhyme
Who was there had seen us
Wouldn't bid him run?
Heavy lay between us
All our sires had done.
There he was, a-springing
Of a pious race,
Setting hags a-swinging
In a market-place;
Sowing turnips over
Where the poppies lay;
Looking past the clover,
Adding up the hay;
Shouting through the Spring song,
Clumping down the sod;
Toadying, in sing-song,
To a crabbed god.
There I was, that came of
Folk of mud and nameI that had my name of
Them without a name.
Up and down a mountain
Streeled my silly stock;
Passing by a fountain,
Wringing at a rock;
Devil-gotten sinners,
Throwing back their heads,
Fiddling for their dinners,
Kissing for their beds.
Not a one had seen us
Wouldn't help him flee.
Angry ran between us
Blood of him and me.
155
How shall I be mating
Who have looked aboveLiving for a hating,
Dying of a love?
~ Dorothy Parker,
1114:Envelope me oh Lord envelope me
From the storms of life envelope me
That I may see your light as you envelope me
Through the thick and thin of life I beseech

Envelope me oh Lord, envelope me!


With thy cloud of glory, envelope me
In thy showers of fountain, envelope me!
Far from all evil I beseech that you shall envelope me
In thy abundant grace oh Lord, envelope me


Envelope me oh Lord, envelope me!


Envelope me oh Lord, envelope me
In the envelope of thy strong might
That my life shall be right in thy sight
Alluring deceptions I meet every time

Envelope me oh Lord, envelope me!


Up and down life goes; riches that take my time
In sorrow do l grow cold; joy that overtake my mind
Uncertainties of life that meet mankind
Before thy throne I beseech insight of all kind
That I may understand life composed of things of different kind


Envelope me oh lord, envelope me! ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,
1115:Something very sinister happens to the people of a country when they begin to distrust their own reactions as deeply as they do here, and become as joyless as they have become. It is this individual uncertainty on the part of white American men and women, this inability to renew themselves at the fountain of their own lives, that makes the discussion, let alone elucidation, of any conundrum—that is, any reality—so supremely difficult. The person who distrusts himself has no touchstone for reality—for this touchstone can be only oneself. Such a person interposes between himself and reality nothing less than a labyrinth of attitudes. And these attitudes, furthermore, though the person is usually unaware of it (is unaware of so much!), are historical and public attitudes. They do not relate to the present any more than they relate to the person. Therefore, whatever white people do not know about Negroes reveals, precisely and inexorably, what they do not know about themselves. ~ James Baldwin,
1116:Who can do as Thy deeds, when under the throne of Thy glory Thou madest a place for the spirits of Thy saints? There is the abode of the pure souls, that are bound in the bundle of life. Those who are tired and weary, there will they restore their strength. There shall the weary be at rest, for they are deserving of repose. In it there is delight without end or limitation, for that is the world-to-come. There are stations and visions for the souls that stand by the mirrors assembled, to see the face of the Lord and to be seen, Dwelling in the royal palaces, standing by the royal table, Delighting in the sweetness of the fruit of the Intelligence, which yields royal dainties. This is the repose and the inheritance, whose good and beauty are without limit, and "surely it floweth with milk and honey; and this is the fruit of it." [1568.jpg] -- from The Heart and the Fountain: An Anthology of Jewish Mystical Experiences, by Joseph Dan

~ Solomon ibn Gabirol, Who can do as Thy deeds
,
1117:Not one but two great nations were to look back to Abraham as their father - two great nations, that is, two guided powers, two instruments to work the Will of Heaven, for God does not promise as a blessing that which is profane, nor is there any greatness before God except greatness in the Spirit. Abraham was thus the fountain-head of two spiritual streams which must not flow together, but each in its own course; and he entrusted Hagar and Ishmael to the blessing of God and the care of His Angels in the certainty that all would be well with them.

Two spiritual streams, two religions, two worlds for God; two circles, therefore two centres. A place is never holy through the choice of man, but because it has been chosen in Heaven. There were two holy centres within the orbit of Abraham: one of these was at hand, the other perhaps he did not get know; and it was to the other that Hagar and Ishmael were guided, in a barren valley of Arabia, some forty camel days south of Canaan. ~ Martin Lings,
1118:Perfect! Now we’re being chased by hoards of monkeys! Perhaps you would care to name their species as we’re attacked, just so I can appreciate the special traits of said monkey as it kills me!”
He ran along beside me. “At least when the monkeys are harassing you, you don’t have time to harass me!
The monkeys were getting close. I almost tripped over one as it darted in front of my legs. Ren leapt over a fountain with his tiger power. Show-off.
“Ren, you’re holding back. Just get out of here! Take the backpack and go.”
He laughed acerbically as he ran ahead of me; then, he turned to look at me while jogging backward. “Ha! You wish you could get rid of me that easily!”
He ran a bit farther ahead of me and switched to the tiger. Then he barreled back toward me and actually leapt over my running body into the throng of monkeys to slow them down.
I shouted back at him while still running, “Hey! Careful where you jump, Mister! You almost took my head off! ~ Colleen Houck,
1119:They had crossed the terrace where weeds, ivy, and goldenrod had run amuck in the flowerbeds that lined the weather-beaten stone balustrade. Mounds of blue hydrangeas nearly as tall as Lucien crowded the three mossy steps that led down into the formal garden. He went down them, and Alice followed him toward the circular fountain. As they approached, two doves that had perched on the stately stone fountain urn fluttered away, cooing. Alice stopped beside the fountain pool and gazed down with a faraway expression at the lily pads, driven with dreamlike slowness over the surface of the shallow water like tiny sailing vessels. She studied the scene as though memorizing it, while Lucien gazed at her, watching the wind toy with her clothes and the tendrils of her hair that it had worked free from her neat coif.
Her waving red-gold hair, blue eyes, and ivory skin, and the chaste, faraway serenity of her face, put him in mind of Botticelli's Venus, rising from the sea upon her scallop shell. ~ Gaelen Foley,
1120:A Light in the Moon"

A light in the moon the only light is on Sunday. What was the sensible decision. The sensible decision was that notwithstanding many declarations and more music, not even notwithstanding the choice and a torch and a collection, notwithstanding the celebrating hat and a vacation and even more noise than cutting, notwithstanding Europe and Asia and being overbearing, not even notwithstanding an elephant and a strict occasion, not even withstanding more cultivation and some seasoning, not even with drowning and with the ocean being encircling, not even with more likeness and any cloud, not even with terrific sacrifice of pedestrianism and a special resolution, not even more likely to be pleasing. The care with which the rain is wrong and the green is wrong and the white is wrong, the care with which there is a chair and plenty of breathing. The care with which there is incredible justice and likeness, all this makes a magnificent asparagus, and also a fountain. ~ Gertrude Stein,
1121:There is need, then, besides this first and fundamental rule the Word of God, of another, a second rule, by which the first may be rightly and duly proposed, applied and declared. And in order that we may not be subject to hesitation and uncertainty, it is necessary not only that the first rule, namely, the Word of God, but also the second, which proposes and applies this rule, be absolutely infallible; otherwise we shall always remain in suspense and in doubt as to whether we are not being badly directed and supported in our faith and belief, not now by any defect in the first rule but by error and defect in the proposition and application thereof. Certainly the danger is equal, either of getting out of rule for want of a right rule or getting out of rule for want of a regular and right application of the rule itself. But this infallibility which is required as well in the rule as in its proper application can have its source only in God, the living and original fountain of all truth. ~ Francis de Sales,
1122:There is need, then, besides this first and fundamental rule the Word of God, of another, a second rule, by which the first may be rightly and duly proposed, applied and declared. And in order that we may not be subject to hesitation and uncertainty, it is necessary not only that the first rule, namely, the Word of God, but also the second, which proposes and applies this rule, be absolutely infallible; otherwise we shall always remain in suspense and in doubt as to whether we are not being badly directed and supported in our faith and belief, not now by any defect in the first rule but by error and defect in the proposition and application thereof. Certainly the danger is equal, either of getting out of rule for want of a right rule or getting out of rule for want of a regular and right application of the rule itself. But this infallibility which is required as well in the rule as in its proper application can have its source only in God, the living and original fountain of all truth. ~ Saint Francis de Sales,
1123:Very slowly, using only two fingers, Annabeth drew her dagger. Instead of dropping it, she tossed it as far as she could into the water.
Octavian made a squeaking sound. “What was that for? I didn’t say toss it! That could’ve been evidence. Or spoils of war!”
Annabeth tried for a dumb-blonde smile, like: Oh, silly me. Nobody who knew her would have been fooled. But Octavian seemed to buy it. He huffed in exasperation.
“You other two…” He pointed his blade at Hazel and Piper. “Put your weapons on the dock. No funny bus—”
All around the Romans, Charleston Harbor erupted like a Las Vegas fountain putting on a show. When the wall of seawater subsided, the three Romans were in the bay, spluttering and frantically trying to stay afloat in their armor. Percy stood on the dock, holding Annabeth’s dagger.
“You dropped this,” he said, totally poker-faced.
Annabeth threw her arms around him. “I love you!”
“Guys,” Hazel interrupted. She had a little smile on her face. “We need to hurry. ~ Rick Riordan,
1124:...'I've never told you this, but when you were in your teens one of your teachers called us. He said you'd been fighting in the playground again. With two of the boys from the grade above, but this time it hadn't turned out so well--they'd had to send you to the hospital to have your lip sewn and a tooth taken out. I stopped your allowance, remember? Anyway, Øystein told me about the fight later. You flew at them because they'd filled Tresko's knapsack with water from the school fountain. If I remember correctly, you didn't even like Tresko much. Øystein said the reason you'd been hurt so badly was that you didn't give in. You got up time after time and in the end you were bleeding so much that the big boys became alarmed and went on their way.'
Olav Hole laughed quietly. 'I didn't think I could tell you that at the time--it would only have been asking for more fights--but I was so proud I could have wept. You were brave, Harry. You were scared of the dark, but that didn't stop you going there.'... ~ Jo Nesb,
1125:Shepherd sat next to him close to the front of the plane. As it taxied for take-off, Muller took a pair of reading glasses out of his jacket pocket, a sheaf of papers from a leather briefcase and began to read, occasionally making marks in the margin with a gold fountain pen. After an hour a stewardess in a tight-fitting green uniform handed out plastic trays with finger sandwiches, followed by a colleague offering coffee or tea. Shepherd passed on the food and the drink. Muller took a cheese sandwich and put away his paperwork. ‘This is your first time in Baghdad, right?’ he asked. ‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. The lie came easily. He doubted that Yokely would want too many people knowing that he had been a passenger on a rendition flight. ‘Although I was in Afghanistan when I was with the Regiment. Another life.’ ‘Iraq’s not dissimilar,’ said Muller. ‘The difference is that before Saddam Iraq was a decent enough country. He ran it into the ground.’ ‘The Major said you were special forces. Delta Force, ~ Stephen Leather,
1126:For this boy destined to be the world’s greatest heir, money was so omnipresent as to be invisible—something “there, like air or food or any other element,” he later said—yet it was never easily attainable.11 As if he were a poor, rural boy, he earned pocket change by mending vases and broken fountain pens or by sharpening pencils. Aware of the rich children spoiled by their parents, Senior seized every opportunity to teach his son the value of money. Once, while Rockefeller was being shaved at Forest Hill, Junior entered with a plan to give away his Sunday-school money in one lump sum, for a fixed period, and be done with it. “Let’s figure it out first,” Rockefeller advised and made Junior run through calculations that showed he would lose eleven cents interest while the Sunday school gained nothing in return. Afterward, Rockefeller told his barber, “I don’t care about the boy giving his money in that way. I want him to give it. But I also want him to learn the lesson of being careful of the little things. ~ Ron Chernow,
1127:WAS THERE STILL SOMETHING MURMURING? WAS IT still the kind murmuring of Plotius, protecting and kind and strong? oh, Plotius, oh, that it might endure, oh, that it might endure murmuringly, quiet and quieting, welling up from the unfathomable depths within and without, now that the labor was over, now that the labor sufficed, now that nothing need follow, oh, that it might go on forever! and verily it went on, murmuring and murmuring, rolling in softly in endlessness, murmur-wave after murmur-wave, each of them tiny yet all of them radiating in a boundless cycle; it was simply there, no sort of hearkening, no effort whatsoever was needed to hold on to it, indeed this murmurousness was not to be held onto, for it strove onward, mingled with the trickling of the fountain, with the trickling of the waters, merged with them in the vast and colorless might of a rest-bearing stream, itself the thing carried, itself rest, itself a moving stream, softly lapping the keel and sides of the boat with slithering foam. ~ Hermann Broch,
1128:/Farsi & Turkish look at love how it tangles with the one fallen in love look at spirit how it fuses with earth giving it new life why are you so busy with this or that or good or bad pay attention to how things blend why talk about all the known and the unknown see how the unknown merges into the known why think separately of this life and the next when one is born from the last look at your heart and tongue one feels but deaf and dumb the other speaks in words and signs look at water and fire earth and wind enemies and friends all at once the wolf and the lamb the lion and the deer far away yet together look at the unity of this spring and winter manifested in the equinox you too must mingle my friends since the earth and the sky are mingled just for you and me be like sugarcane sweet yet silent don't get mixed up with bitter words my beloved grows right out of my own heart how much more union can there be [2079.jpg] -- from Rumi: Fountain of Fire, Translated by Nader Khalili

~ Jalaluddin Rumi, look at love
,
1129: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
,
1130:Billy tries to imagine the vast systems that support these athletes. They are among the best-cared for creatures in the history of the planet, beneficiaries of the best nutrition, the latest technologies, the finest medical care, they live at the very pinnacle of American innovation and abundance, which inspires an extraordinary thought - send them to fight the war! Send them just as they are this moment, well rested, suited up, psyched for brutal combat, send the entire NFL! Attack with all our bears and raiders, our ferocious redskins, our jets, eagles, falcons, chiefs, patriots, cowboys - how could a bunch of skinny hajjis in man-skits and sandals stand a chance against these all-Americans? Resistance is futile, oh Arab foes. Surrender now and save yourself a world of hurt, for our mighty football players cannot be stopped, they are so huge, so strong, so fearsomely ripped that mere bombs and bullets bounce off their bones of steel. Submit, lest our awesome NFL show you straight to the flaming gates of hell! ~ Ben Fountain,
1131:If I Ain't Got You"

Some people live for the fortune
Some people live just for the fame
Some people live for the power
Some people live just to play the game

Some people think that the physical things
Define what's within
And I've been there before
But that life's a bore
So full of the superficial

[Chorus:]
Some people want it all
But I don't want nothing at all
If it ain't you, baby
If I ain't got you, baby
Some people want diamond rings
Some just want everything
But everything means nothing
If I ain't got you

Some people search for a fountain
That promises "forever young"
Some people need three dozen roses
And that's the only way to prove you love them

Hand me the world on a silver platter
And what good would it be?
With no one to share
With no one who truly cares for me

[Chorus:]

If I ain't got you with me, baby
So nothing in this whole wide world don't mean a thing
If I ain't got you with me, baby ~ Alicia Keys,
1132:Between the fifteenth and nineteenth centuries, the New World opened by terrestrial explorers, adventurers, soldiers, and administrators joined forces with the scientific and technical new world that the scientists, the inventors, and the engineers explored and cultivated: they were part and parcel of the same movement. One mode of exploration was concerned with abstract symbols, rational systems, universal laws, repeatable and predictable events, objective mathematical measurements: it sought to understand, utilize, and control the forces that derive ultimately from the cosmos, and the solar system. The other model dwelt on the concrete and the organic, the adventurous, the tangible: to sail uncharted oceans, to conquer new lands, to subdue and overawe strange peoples, to discover new foods and medicines, perhaps to find the fountain of youth, or if not, to seize by shameless force of arms the wealth of the Indies. In both modes of exploration, there was from the beginning a touch of defiant pride and demonic frenzy. ~ Lewis Mumford,
1133:It is remarkable that circumcision, which is invariably practiced by thE
Mahometans, and forms a distinguishing rite of their faith, to which all
proselytes must conform, is neither mentioned in the Koran nor the
Sonna. It seems to have been a general usage in Arabia, tacitly adopted
from the Jews, and is even said to have been prevalent throughout the
East before the time of Moses.

It is said that the Koran forbids the making likenesses of any living
thing, which has prevented the introduction of portrait-painting among
Mahometans. The passage of the Koran, however, which is thought to
contain the prohibition, seems merely an echo of the second commandment, held sacred by Jews and Christians, not to form images or pictures
for worship. One of Mahomet's standards was a black eagle. Among the most distinguished Moslem ornaments of the Alhambra at Granada is a fountain supported by lions carved of stone, and some Moslem monarchs have had their effigies stamped on their coins. ~ Washington Irving,
1134:The force that through the green fuse drives the flower"

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm. ~ Dylan Thomas,
1135:HOW ATTRACTION HAPPENS

Moses is talking to someone drunk with worshiping the golden calf. "What happened to your

doubt? You used to be so skeptical of me. The Red Sea parted. Food came every day in the

wilderness for forty years. A fountain sprang out of a rock. You saw these things

and still reject the idea of prophethood. Then the magician Samiri does a trick to make

the metal cow low, and immediately you kneel! What did that hollow statue say? Have you

heard a dullness like your own?" This is how attraction happens: people with nothing

they value delight in worthlessness. Someone who thinks there's no meaning or purpose

feels drawn to images of futility. Each moves to be with its own. The ox does not turn

toward a lion. Wolves have no interest in Joseph, unless to devour him. But if a wolf

is cured of wolfishness, it will sleep close by Joseph, like a dog in the presence of

meditators. Soul companionship gives safety and light to a cave full of friends. ~ Rumi,
1136:The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The
Flower
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
~ Dylan Thomas,
1137:In the soul where Christ savingly is, there He lives. He not only lives without it, so as violently to actuate it, but He lives in it, so that the soul also is alive. Grace in the soul is as much from Christ, as the light in a glass, held out in the sunbeams, is from the sun. But this represents the manner of the communication of grace to the soul only in part; because the glass remains as it was, the nature of it not being at all changed; it is as much without any lightsomeness in its nature as ever. But the soul of a saint receives light from the Sun of Righteousness, in such a manner that its nature is changed, and it becomes properly a luminous thing; not only does the sun shine in the saints, but they also become little suns, partaking of the nature of the Fountain of their light. In this respect, the manner of their derivation of light is like that of the lamps in the tabernacle, rather than that of a reflecting glass; which, though they were lit up by fire from heaven, yet thereby became themselves burning shining things. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
1138:Fragment
Faint white pillars that seem to fade
As you look from here are the first one sees
Of his house where it hides and dies in a shade
Of beeches and oaks and hickory trees.
Now many a man, given woods like these,
And a house like that, and the Briony gold,
Would have said, "There are still some gods to please,
And houses are built without hands, we're told.
There are the pillars, and all gone gray.
Briony's hair went white. You may see
Where the garden was if you come this way.
That sun-dial scared him, he said to me;
"Sooner or later they strike," said he,
But he knew too much for the life he led.
And who knows all knows everything
That a patient ghost at last retrieves;
There's more to be known of his harvesting
When Time the thresher unbinds the sheaves;
And there's more to be heard than a wind that grieves
For Briony now in this ageless oak,
Driving the first of its withered leaves
Over the stones where the fountain broke.
~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,
1139:When I started writing I wanted the best tools. I skipped right over chisels on rocks, stylus on wet clay plates, quills and fountain pens, even mechanical pencils, and went straight to one of the first popular spin-offs of the aerospace program: the ballpoint pen. They were developed for comber navigators in the war because fountain pens would squirt all over your leather bomber jacket at altitude. (I have a cherished example of the next generation ballpoint, a pressurized Space Pen cleverly designed to work in weightlessness, given to me by Spider Robinson. At least, I cherish it when I can find it. It is also cleverly designed to seek out the lowest point of your desk, roll off, then find the lowest point on the floor, under a heavy piece of furniture. That's because it is cylindrical and lacks a pocket clip to keep it from rolling. In space, I presume it would float out of your pocket and find a forgotten corner of your spacecraft to hide in. NASA spent $3 million developing it. Good job, guys. I'm sure it's around here somewhere.) ~ John Varley,
1140:Quincel de Morhban received me in his garden, something I never would have suspected, from either the man or the place. It was an inner sanctum, like Delaunay’s, like I had known in the Night Court, only vaster. It was shielded from the elements, warmed by a dozen braziers and torches, with mirrors set to gather the sun’s heat when it availed, and scrims of sheerest silk that could be drawn across the open roof to protect the delicate flora. In all defiance of the early spring chill, a riot of flowers bloomed: spikenard and foxglove, azalea, Lady’s slipper and Love-Not-Lost, orchids and phlox, lavender and roses. “You are pleased,” de Morhban said softly. He stood beside a small fountain, awaiting me; his eyes drank in the sight of me. “It costs me thousands of ducats to maintain this place. I have one master gardener from L’Agnace, and one from Namarre, and they are ever at odds with each other. But I reckon it worth the cost. I am D’Angeline. So we count the cost of pleasure.” He reached out one hand for me. “So I count your cost. ~ Jacqueline Carey,
1141:Is It Best?
O mother who sips sweetened liquors!
Look down at the child on your breast;
Think, think of the rough path before him,
And ask yourself then, 'Is it best?
Shall I foster a love for this poison,
Instil the thirst into his veins?
In the fountain he seeks at my bosom
Sow the rank seeds of death, grief, and pains?
'Shall I give him the thirst of the drunkard,
Bequeath him the weapons of crime?
Can we look for a glass of pure water
Dipped up from a fountain of slime?
Can we look for brave men, strong and noble,
Where the parents drink poison for food?
When the body and soul are corrupted,
Can we look for the works to be good?'
Oh! think of the future before him!
There are perils you cannot remove.
Yet this, the great highway of sorrowOh! guard him from this with your love.
There are rough paths enough in the future
For the feet of the child on your breast;
And lower the glass you are lifting,
And ask yourself, then, 'Is it best?'
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
1142:He who cannot calmly leave his affairs in God's hand, but will carry his own burden, is very likely to be tempted to use wrong means to help himself. This sin leads to a forsaking of God as our counsellor, and resorting instead to human wisdom. This is going to the "broken cistern" instead of to the "fountain;" a sin which was laid against Israel of old. Anxiety makes us doubt God's lovingkindness, and thus our love to him grows cold; we feel mistrust, and thus grieve the Spirit of God, so that our prayers become hindered, our consistent example marred, and our life one of self-seeking. Thus want of confidence in God leads us to wander far from him; but if through simple faith in his promise, we cast each burden as it comes upon him, and are "careful for nothing" because he undertakes to care for us, it will keep us close to him, and strengthen us against much temptation. "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusteth in thee."                                  ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1143:1. You CHEATED to WIN the avant-garde art competition!! 2. You totally RUINED my birthday party by SABOTAGING the chocolate fountain!! 3. You competed in the TALENT SHOW and landed a RECORD DEAL even though your application was INCOMPLETE (like, WHO names their band Actually, I’m Not Really Sure Yet?)!! 4. You WON the “Holiday on Ice” show, and EVERYBODY knows that you CAN’T ice-skate! 5. You TOILET-PAPERED my house!!!! 6. You tricked me into DIGGING through a DUMPSTER filled with GARBAGE in my designer dress at the Sweetheart Dance! 7. You actually KISSED my FBF (future boyfriend), BRANDON!! 8. You pretended to be seriously HURT during dodgeball so that I would get DETENTION (which, BTW, could totally RUIN my chances of getting into an Ivy League university)! 9. You put a nasty STINK BUG in my hair!! And the HORRIBLE THING that I just found out TODAY . . . 10. You’ve completely RUINED my reputation and HUMILIATED me, because now the ENTIRE school is passing around that AWFUL video of me having a meltdown about the bug that YOU put in my hair. ~ Rachel Ren e Russell,
1144:I’m looking for Fat Hoochie Prom Queen,” I declared.
He did not respond.
“It’s a book,” I said. “Not a person.”
Nope. Nothing.
“At the very least, can you tell me the author?”
He looked at his computer, as if it had some way to speak to me without any typing on his part.
“Are you wearing headphones that I can’t see?” I asked.
He scratched at the inside of his elbow.
“Do you know me?” I persisted. “Did I grind you to a pulp in kindergarten, and are you now getting sadistic pleasure from this petty revenge?
Stephen Little, is that you? Is it? I was much younger then, and foolish to have nearly drowned you in that water fountain. In my defense, your
prior destruction of my book report was a completely unwarranted act of aggression.”
Finally, a response. The information desk clerk shook his shaggy head.
“No?” I said.
“I am not allowed to disclose the location of Fat Hoochie Prom Queen,” he explained. “Not to you. Not to anyone. And while I am not Stephen
Little, you should be ashamed of what you did to him. Ashamed. ~ Rachel Cohn,
1145:The bottom drawer. Last chance. Camping equipment. Vuarnet sunglasses, three pairs without cases. She had three, six, ten of everything. Except! Except! And there it was.
There it was. The gold. His gold. At the bottom of the bottom drawer, where he should have begun in the first place, in among a jumble of old schoolbooks and more teddy bears, a simple Scotties box, design of white, liliac, and pale green flowers on a lemony-white background "Each box of Scotties offers the softness and strength you want for your family..." You're no fool, D. Handwritten label on the box read, "Recipes." You cunning girl. I love you. Recipes. I'll give you teddy bears up the gazoo!
Inside the Scotties box were her recipes - "Deborah's Sponge Cake," "Deborah's Brownies", "Deborah's Chocolate Chip Cookies," "Deborah's Divine Lemon Cake" - neatly written in blue ink in her hand. A fountain pen. The last kid in America to write with a fountain pen. You won't last five minutes in Bahia.
A short, very stout woman was standing in the doorway of Deborah's bedroom screaming. ~ Philip Roth,
1146:And it seems to me that life, this brief life, is nothing other than this: the incessant cry of these emotions that drive us, that we sometimes attempt to channel in the name of a god, a political faith, in a ritual that reassures us that, fundamentally, everything is in order, in a great and boundless love—and the cry is beautiful. Sometimes it is a cry of pain. Sometimes it is a song. And song, as Augustine observed, is the awareness of time. It is time. It is the hymn of the Vedas that is itself the flowering of time.131 In the Benedictus of Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis, the song of the violin is pure beauty, pure desperation, pure joy. We are suspended, holding our breath, feeling mysteriously that this must be the source of meaning. That this is the source of time. Then the song fades and ceases. “The silver thread is broken, the golden bowl is shattered, the amphora at the fountain breaks, the bucket falls into the well, the earth returns to dust.”132 And it is fine like this. We can close our eyes, rest. This all seems fair and beautiful to me. This is time. ~ Carlo Rovelli,
1147:Frida
Frida, I knew that thy life-years were counted.
If but before thee a lifting thought mounted,
Upward thy gaze turned all wistful to view it,
As wouldst thou pursue it.
Eyes that so clear saw the wonderful vision
Looked far away beyond earth's indecision.
Snow-white unfolded the pinions that later
Bore thee to the greater.
Speaking or asking thou broughtest me sorrow;
Eyes thine and words thine seemed wanting to borrow
Clearness more pure and thoughts, victory gaining
Beyond my attaining.
When thou wert dancing in all a child's lightness,
Shaking thy locks like a fountain in brightness,
Laughing till heaven was opened in gladness
Over thy gladness,Or when affliction in sternness had spoken,
So that thy heart in that moment seemed broken,
Far from thy thoughts in thy suffering riven
Were both earth and heaven,Then, oh, I saw then: thy joy and thy grieving
Ever the bounds of the mortal were cleaving.
All seems so little where silent we ponder,But room they have yonder.
~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson,
1148:A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. ~ John Keats,
1149:Then we were at the fountain - we stop and look up at the many illuminated windows of number 2.
"This is as far as you can walk me," she says. "Thanks for taking me home."
I bowed, not daring to say a word. I doffed my hat and stood bareheaded. I wondered if she would give me her hand.
"Why don't you ask me to walk back with you part of the way?" She says playfully. But she looks down at the tip of her shoe.
"Gee," I answer, "if only you would!"
"Sure, but only a little way."
And we turned around.
I was utterly bewildered, I didn't know which way was up anymore; this person turned all my thinking topsy-turvy. I was enchanted, wonderfully glad; I felt as though I were dying from happiness. She had expressly wanted to go back with me, it wasn't my idea, it was her own wish. I gaze and gaze at her, growing more and more cocky, and she encourages me, drawing me toward her by every word she speaks. I forget for a moment my poverty, my humble self, my whole miserable existence, I feel the blood coursing warmly through my body as in the old days, before I broke down. ~ Knut Hamsun,
1150:O Holy Spirit of Fire, life in the life of all life, holy are you, enlivening all things. Holy are you, a healing balm to the broken. Holy are you, washing blistered wounds. O Holy Breath, O Fire of Life, O Sweetness in my breast infusing my heart with the fine scent of truth. O Pure Fountain through which we know God unites strangers and gathers the lost. O Heart's Shield, guarding life and hope, joining the many members into one body; Belt of Truth, wrap them in beauty. Protect those ensnared by the enemy, and free the worthy from their fetters. O Great Way that runs through all, from the heights, across the earth, and in the depths, you encompass all and unify all. From you the clouds stream and the ether rises; from your stones precious water pours, springs well and birth waterways, and the earth sweats green with life. And eternally do you bring forth knowledge by the breath of wisdom. All praise to you, you who are the song of praise and the joy of life, you who are hope and the greatest treasure, bestowing the gift of Light.

~ Saint Hildegard von Bingen, O ignis Spiritus Paracliti
,
1151:Rumi
I escaped from the city
barefooted. I escaped from the fires
naked, except for the bag
of ancient books
slung over my back.
I ran into the desert. The horsemen
chased. Their torches
had coloured the tenements.
I ran for months. Finally
on a glorious night
I stopped. The raiders had given up
on me. I was alone
with the moon and the sand-dunes.
I looked down at my feet.
They were skinned.
I looked at my trace: red footprints
dark on the glowing plain.
I thought about my tribe
butchered as sacrificial beasts.
I remembered their smiles
before the flames. On the holy night
I knelt before the moon
and wept. In the desert
tears are elixir. From their pool
a fountain bubbled. I cleaned my scars
in the water. The books
67
weighed on my body. I took them out
and one by one
dipped them into the spring.
All knowledge, all art, and all history
drowned before my eyes. Freed
from the clutch of paper
words’ ink dissolved in the lake.
I then drank. I was saved.
~ Ali Alizadeh,
1152:The Party
THE house is bright with lights and lights,
Like a palace in the Arabian Nights,
Lights in festoons and lights in clusters,
In chandeliers and crystal lustres;
And all the length of the stairs' broad way,
Tapestries green and pink and gray
Tell a story of ladies' bowers
Hung with apples and paved with flowers;
And beyond, an open arch discloses
An inner garden of palms and roses,
With lines of lilies against the walls,
And a fountain that falls - and waits - and falls.
And from the ballroom comes the beat
Of dance music and dancing feet,
And through the doorways of gold and glass
Figures of dancers pass and pass,
Lovely creatures in dripping laces,
And all have sad, unhopeful faces.
One person only yields to joy,
And he is a footman - a round-faced boy Stiff in a livery of black and green,
And he laughs at something heard or seen,
Laughs with a loud and lonely gladness,
Laughs perhaps at the dancers' sadness;
He only seemed for an instant gay,
And he was instantly sent away.
~ Alice Duer Miller,
1153:Ballade Of Aucassin
Where smooth the southern waters run
By rustling leagues of poplars grey,
Beneath a veiled soft southern sun,
We wandered out of yesterday,
Went maying through that ancient May
Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet,
And loitered by the fountain spray
With Aucassin and Nicolette.
The grass-grown paths are trod of none
Where through the woods they went astray.
The spider's traceries are spun
Across the darkling forest way.
There come no knights that ride to slay,
No pilgrims through the grasses wet,
No shepherd lads that sang their say
With Aucassin and Nicolette!
'Twas here by Nicolette begun
Her bower of boughs and grasses gay;
'Scaped from the cell of marble dun
'Twas here the lover found the fay,
Ah, lovers fond! ah, foolish play!
How hard we find it to forget
Who fain would dwell with them as they,
With Aucassin and Nicolette.
ENVOY.
Prince, 'tis a melancholy lay!
For youth, for love we both regret.
How fair they seem, how far away,
With Aucassin and Nicolette!
~ Andrew Lang,
1154:We wished to go to the Ambrosian Library, and we did that also. We saw a manuscript of Virgil, with annotations in the handwriting of Petrarch, the gentleman who loved another man's Laura, and lavished upon her all through life a love which was a clear waste of the raw material. It was sound sentiment, but bad judgment. It brought both parties fame, and created a fountain of commiseration for them in sentimental breasts that is running yet. But who says a word in behalf of poor Mr. Laura? (I do not know his other name.) Who glorifies him? Who bedews him with tears? Who writes poetry about him? Nobody. How do you suppose he liked the state of things that has given the world so much pleasure? How did he enjoy having another man following his wife every where and making her name a familiar word in every garlic-exterminating mouth in Italy with his sonnets to her pre-empted eyebrows? They got fame and sympathy--he got neither. This is a peculiarly felicitous instance of what is called poetical justice. It is all very fine; but it does not chime with my notions of right. It is too one-sided--too ungenerous. ~ Mark Twain,
1155:When my daughter was a toddler, I used to take her to a park not far from our apartment. One day as she was playing in a sandbox, an ice-cream salesman approached us. I purchased her a treat, and when I turned to give it to her, I saw her mouth was full of sand. Where I had intended to put a delicacy, she had put dirt.

Did I love her with dirt in her mouth? Absolutely. Was she any less of my daughter with dirt in her mouth? Of course not. Was I going to allow her to keep the dirt in her mouth? No way. I loved her right where she was, but I refused to leave her there. I carried her over to the water fountain and washed out her mouth. Why? Because I love her.

God does the same for us. He holds us over the fountain. "Spit out the dirt, honey," our Father urges. "I've got something better for you." And so he cleanses us of filth; immorality, dishonesty, prejudice, bitterness, greed. We don't enjoy the cleansing; sometimes we even opt for the dirt over the ice cream. "I can eat dirt if I want to!" we pout and proclaim. Which is true—we can. But if we do, the loss is ours. God has a better offer. ~ Max Lucado,
1156:61

TAKE my wine in my own cup, friend.

It loses its wreath of foam

when poured into that of others.

62

THE Perfect decks itself in beauty

for the love of the Imperfect.

63

GOD says to man,

"I heal you therefore I hurt,

love you therefore punish."

64

THANK the flame for its light,

but do not forget the lampholder

standing in the shade with constancy of patience.

65

TINY grass,

your steps are small,

but you possess the earth under your tread.

66

THE infant flower opens its bud and cries,

"Dear World, please do not fade."

67

GOD grows weary of great kingdoms,

but never of little flowers.

68

WRONG cannot afford defeat

but Right can.

69

"I GIVE my whole water in joy,

" sings the waterfall,

"though little of it is enough for the thirsty."

70

WHERE is the fountain

that throws up these flowers

in a ceaseless outbreak of ecstasy?

~ Rabindranath Tagore, Stray Birds 61 - 70
,
1157:The Hermit
To a hunter from the city,
Overtaken by the night,
Spake, in tones of tender pity
For himself, an aged wight:
'I have found the world a fountain
Of deceit and Life a sham.
I have taken to the mountain
And a Holy Hermit am.
'Sternly bent on Contemplation,
Far apart from human kind
In the hill my habitation,
In the Infinite my mind.
'Ten long years I've lived a dumb thing,
Growing bald and bent with dole.
Vainly seeking for a Something
To engage my gloomy soul.
'Gentle Pilgrim, while my roots you
Eat, and quaff my simple drink,
Please suggest whatever suits you
As a Theme for me to Think.'
Then the hunter answered gravely:
'From distraction free, and strife,
You could ponder very bravely
On the Vanity of Life.'
'O, thou wise and learned Teacher,
You have solved the Problem well
You have saved a grateful creature
From the agonies of hell.
'Take another root, another
Cup of water: eat and drink.
Now I have a Subject, brother,
Tell me What, and How, to think.'
489
~ Ambrose Bierce,
1158:In order to elucidate especially and most clearly the origination of this error (...) let us imagine a man who, while standing on the street, would say to himself:

"It is six o'clock in the evening, the working day is over. Now I can go for a walk, or I can go to the club; I can also climb up the tower to see the sunset; I can go to the theater; I can visit this friend or that one; indeed, I also can run out of the gate, into the wide world, and never return. All of this is strictly up to me, in this I have complete freedom. But still I shall do none of these things now , but with just as free a will I shall go home to my wife".

This is exactly as if water spoke to itself: "I can make high waves (yes! in the sea during a storm), I can rush down hill (yes! in the river bed), I can plunge down foaming and gushing (yes! in the waterfall), I can rise freely as a stream of water into the air (yes! in the fountain), I can, finally boil away and disappear (yes! at a certain temperature); but I am doing none of these things now, and am voluntaringly remaining quiet and clear water in the reflecting pond. ~ Arthur Schopenhauer,
1159:These look rather exotic."
Behind her, Vane studied the way her gown had pulled tight over the curves of her bottom- and didn't argue. Lips lifting in anticipation, he moved in- to spring his trap.
Her heart racing, tripping in double time, Patience straightened, and went to slide around the fountain, to place it between herself and the wolf she was trapped in the conservatory with. Instead, she ran into an arm.
She blinked at it. One faultless grey sleeve enclosing solid bone well covered with steely muscle, large fist locked over the scrolled rim of the basin, it stated very clearly that she wasn't going anywhere.
Patience whirled- and found her retreat similarly blocked. Swinging farther, she met Vane's gaze; standing on the tiled floor, one step below her, arms braced on the rim, his eyes were nearly level with hers. She studied them, read his intent in the silvered grey, in the hardening lines of his face, the brutally sensual line of those uncompromising lips.
She couldn't believe her eyes.
"Here?" The word, weak though it was, accurately reflected her disbelief.
"Right here. Right now. ~ Stephanie Laurens,
1160:It is the inattentive reader who loses my subject, not I. Some word about it will always be found off in a corner, which will not fail to be sufficient, though it takes little room. I seek out change indiscriminately and tumultuously. My style and my mine alike go roaming. A man must be a little mad if he does not want to be even more stupid, say the precepts of our masters, and even more so their examples.

A thousand poets drag and languish prosaically; but the best ancient prose — and I scatter it here indiscriminately as verse — shines throughout with the vigor and boldness of poetry, and gives the effect of its frenzy. To poetry we must certainly concede mastery and preeminence in speech. The poet, says Plato, seated on the tripod of the Muses, pours out in a frenzy whatever comes into his mouth, like the spout of a fountain, without ruminating and weighing it; and from him escape things of different colors and contradictory substance in an intermittent flow. He himself is utterly poetic, and the old theology is poetry, the scholars say, and the first philosophy. It is the original language of the Gods. ~ Michel de Montaigne,
1161:Psalm 114
When Israel came from Egypt’s coast,
And Goshen’s marshy plains,
And Jacob with his joyful host
From servitude and chains;
Then was it seen how much the Jews
Were holy in his sight,
And God did Israel’s kingdom choose
To manifest his might.
The sea beheld it, and with dread
Retreated to make way;
And Jordan to his fountain head
Ran backwards in dismay.
The mountains, like the rams that bound,
Exulted on their base;
Like lambs the little hills around
Skipt lightly from their place.
What is the cause, thou mighty sea,
That thou thyself should shun;
And Jordan, what is come to thee,
That thou should backward run?
Ye mountains that ye leaped so high
From off the solid rock,
Ye hills that ye should gambols try,
Like firstlings of the flock?
Earth, from the center to the sod
His fearful presence hail
The presence of Jeshurun’s God,
In whom our arms prevail.
Who beds of rocks in pools to stand
Can by his word compel,
And from the veiny flint command
The fountain and the well.
106
~ Christopher Smart,
1162:The freaking randomness is what wears on you, the difference between life, death, and horrible injury sometimes as slight as stooping to tie your bootlace on the way to chow, choosing the third shitter in line instead of the fourth, turning your head to the left instead of the right. Random. How that shit does twist your mind. Billy sense the true mindfucking potential of it on their first trip outside the wire, when Shroom advised him to place his feet one in front of the other instead of side by side, that way if an IED blew low through the Humvee Billy might lose only one foot instead of two. After a couple of weeks of aligning his feet just so, tucking his hands inside his body armor, always wearing eye pro and all the rest, he went to Shroom and asked how do you keep from going crazy! Shroom nodded like this was an eminently reasonable question to ask, then told him of an Inuit shaman he’d read about somewhere, how this man could supposedly look at you and know to the day when you were going to die. He wouldn’t tell you, though; he considered that impolite, an intrusion into matters that were none of his business. ~ Ben Fountain,
1163:You are wise, and wisdom is a fountain and source of life welling up from within you, and men are too coarse to know you. You are wise, and prime to all that's primeval, as though you were wisdom's tutor. You are wise, but your wisdom wasn't acquired and didn't derive from another. You are wise, and your wisdom gave rise to an endless desire in the world as within an artist or worker -- to bring out the stream of existence from Nothing, like light flowing from sight's extension -- drawing from the source of that light without vessel, giving it shape without tools, hewing and carving, refining and making it pure: He called to Nothing -- which split; to existence -- pitched like a tent; to the world -- as it spread beneath sky. With desire's span He established the heavens, as His hand coupled the tent of the planets with loops of skill, weaving creation's pavilions, the links of His will reaching the lowest rung of creation -- the curtain at the outermost edge of the spheres... [2610.jpg] -- from The Poetry of Kabbalah: Mystical Verse from the Jewish Tradition, Edited by Peter Cole

~ Solomon ibn Gabirol, You are wise (from From Kingdoms Crown)
,
1164:Poetry is the report of a nuance between two moments, when people say 'Listen!' and 'Did you see it?' 'Did you hear it? What was it?'

Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.

Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.

Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly the air.

Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.

Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.

Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.

Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.

Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.

Poetry is the establishment of a metaphorical link between white butterfly-wings and the scraps of torn-up love letters.

Poetry is the achievement of the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits. ~ Carl Sandburg,
1165:You could fall suddenly into the void the dead go to: I would be comforted if you would bequeath me your hands. Only your hands would continue to exist, detached from you, unexplainable like those of marble gods turned into the dust and the limestone of their own tomb. They would survive your actions, the wretched bodies they caressed. They would no longer serve as intermediaries between you and things: they themselves would be changed into things. Innocent again now, since you would no longer be there to turn them into your accomplices, sad like greyhounds without masters, disconcerted like archangels to whom no god gives orders, your useless hands would rest on the lap of darkness. Your open hands incapable of giving or taking the slightest joy would have let me slump like a broken doll. I kiss the wrists of these indifferent hands you will no longer pull away from mine: I stroke the blue artery, the blood column that once spurted continuously like a fountain from the ground of your heart. With little sobs of contentment, I rest my head like a child between these palms filled with the stars, the crosses, the precipices of my previous fate. ~ Marguerite Yourcenar,
1166:At the first light of the dawn
the loner knight asked:
"Do you happen to know-
the abode of The Beloved?"

The skies went silent,
save their mournful clouds,
save their falling stars.

The pilgrim gave up his glowing twig-
to the gloom of the sands-
and replied:

“Don’t you see that poplar tree?
Well, right before the tree,
There is a lane that you’ll reckon, I deem.
For it is greener than a heavenly dream,
For it is generously shaded-
with the deep blue’s of love.

Well, if you See!

So walk down that lane,
You’ll arrive to the garden of sense;
Turn to the direction of the loner lake;
Listen to the genial hymn of leaves;
Watch the eternal fountain-
that flows from the spring of ancient myths-
till you fade away-
In a plain fear.

When a rigid noise-
Clatters into the fluid intimacy of the space,
you'll find a child-
on the top of a tree-
next to the nest of owls-
in hope of a golden egg.

Well, if you See.

You may be sure: The Child will show you the way.

Well,
If you just ask about-
The Abode of The Beloved. ~ Sohrab Sepehri,
1167:How well I know that flowing spring in black of night. The eternal fountain is unseen. How well I know where she has been in black of night. I do not know her origin. None. Yet in her all things begin in black of night. I know that nothing is so fair and earth and firmament drink there in black of night. I know that none can wade inside to find her bright bottomless tide in black of night. Her shining never has a blur; I know that all light comes from her in black of night. I know her streams converge and swell and nourish people, skies and hell in black of night. The stream whose birth is in this source I know has a gigantic force in black of night. The stream from but these two proceeds yet neither one, I know, precedes in black of night. The eternal fountain is unseen in living bread that gives us being in black of night. She calls on all mankind to start to drink her water, though in dark, for black is night. O living fountain that I crave, in bread of life I see her flame in black of night. [1508.jpg] -- from To Touch the Sky: Poems of Mystical, Spiritual & Metaphysical Light, Translated by Willis Barnstone

~ Saint John of the Cross, The Fountain
,
1168: Did I not say to you, Go not there, for I am your friend; in this
mirage of annihilation I am the fountain of life?
Even though in anger you depart a hundred thousand years
from me, in the end you will come to me, for I am your goal.
Did I not say to you, Be not content with worldly forms, for I
am the fashioner of the tabernacle of your contentment?
Did I not say to you, I am the sea and you are a single fish;
go not to dry land, for I am your crystal sea?
Did I not say to you, Go not like birds to the snare; come, for
I am the power of flight and your wings and feet?
Did I not say to you, They will waylay you and make you
cold, for I am the fire and warmth and heat of your desire?
Did I not say to you, They will implant in you ugly qualities
so that you will forget that I am the source of purity to you?
Did I not say to you, Do not say from what direction the ser-
vants affairs come into order? I am the Creator without
directions.
If you are the lamp of the heart, know where the road is to the
house; and if you are godlike of attribute, know that I am your
Maser.
~ Jalaluddin Rumi, Did I Not Say To You
,
1169:The Boy Mind
WISH I was only as bright as my boy,
Wish I could think of the things that he springs;
His is a wit without any alloy,
His are real jokes without venomous stings.
Laugh? When he speaks, from the tip of your toes
To the top of your head you will shake through and through,
As the soft breeze of summer oft shakes the red rose,
And the petals of pansies are thrilled by the dew.
Wish I was only as bright as my boy,
Wish I could think of such funny remarks,
His little mind is a fountain of joy,
Throwing off fun as an anvil sheds sparks.
He makes us laugh if we want to or not,
Never was jester of king quite so droll,
His are the shafts that go right to the spot,
His is a humor that tickles your soul.
None of the quips that your funny men say
Is equal to those that the child mind produces;
He has the power to drive sorrow away,
The flood gates of laughter he gayly unlooses.
Wise? As the wisest of brow wrinkled sages;
Quaint? As the quaintest of men on the earth;
Funny? Why, none of your funniest pages
Compare with a boy for real laughter and mirth.
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
1170:What to call it - the spark of God? Survival instinct? The souped-up computer of an apex brain evolved from eons in the R&D of natural selection? You could practically see the neurons firing in the kid’s skull. His body was all spring and torque, a bundle of fast-twitch muscles that exuded faint floral whiffs of ripe pear. So much perfection in such a compact little person - Billy had to tackle him from time to time, wrestle him squealing to the ground just to get that little rascal in his hands, just your basic adorable thirty-month-old with big blue eyes clear as chlorine pools and Huggies poking out of his stretchy-waist jeans. So is this what they mean by the sanctity of life? A soft groan escaped Billy when he thought about that, the war revealed in this fresh and gruesome light. Oh. Ugh. Divine spark, image of God, suffer the little children and all that - there’s real power when words attach to actual things. Made him want to sit right down and weep, as powerful as that. He got it, yes he did, and when he came home for good he’d have to meditate on this, but for now it was best to compartmentalize, as they said, or even better not to mentalize at all. ~ Ben Fountain,
1171:Adrian?"
Her voice was small, nearly lost in the dripping of waterfrom the fountain. But the power it carried - and the effect it had on me - was monumental. I'd heard the expression "weak-kneed" before but had never lived it until now. My muscles didn't feel as though they could sustain me, and there was a great swelling in my chest, the result of a tangle of emotions I couldn't even begin to describe. Love. Joy. Relief. Disbelief. And mixed in with all of them were the emotions that I'd endured these last few months as well: despair, fear, rossow. It spread out from my heart, and I felt tears form in my eyes. It wasn't possible that one person could make you experience so many emotions at once, that one person could trigger a universe of feelings, simply with the sound of your name.
I also knew then that they were wrong - all of them. My mom. My dad. Nina. Anyone who thought love could simply be built on shared goals alone had never, ever experienced anything like what I had with Sydney. I couldn't believe I'd almost lost this through my own ignorance. Until I looked into her eyes now, I didn't truly realize what a hollow life I'd been living.
"Sydney.. ~ Richelle Mead,
1172:He couldn’t bear to live, but he couldn’t bear to die. He couldn’t bear
the thought of her making love to someone else, but neither could he bear the absence of the thought. And as for the note, he couldn’t bear to keep it, but he couldn’t bear to destroy it either. So he tried to lose it. He left it by the wax-weeping candle holders, placed it between matzos every Passover, dropped it without regard among rumpled papers on his cluttered desk, hoping it wouldn’t be there when he returned. But it was always there. He tried to massage it out of his pocket while sitting on the bench in front of the fountain of the prostrate mermaid, but when he inserted his hand for his hanky, it was there. He hid it like a bookmark in one of the novels he most hated, but the note would appear several days later between the pages of one of the Western books that he alone in the shtetl read, one of the books that the note had now spoiled for him forever. But like his life, he couldn’t for the life of him lose the note. It kept returning to him. It stayed with him, like a part of him, like a birthmark, like a limb, it was on him, in him, him, his hymn: I had to do it for myself. ~ Jonathan Safran Foer,
1173:1002
The Way Of The World
IT'S ALL in the way that you look at the world,
It's all in the way that you do things,
With laughter or sorrow your lips may be curled,
But it's all in the way that you view things.
Yes, it's all in the way that you journey along
That makes life a plague or a pleasure,
The mind is the fountain of wailing or song
And a man is the judge of the measure.
It's all in the way that you look at your woe
And not in the woe that is sent you;
You may bear it with courage and smile as you go,
Or frown and let it discontent you.
For care is a creature that's born of the mind,
And gloom is a cloud we can scatter,
The thorn of the rose if we seek we can find,
But the thorn of the rose doesn't matter.
We can make our own sunshine and make our own mirth,
We can add to our trouble by moping;
We can make a grim graveyard of this glad old earth
By giving up loving and hoping.
For it's all in the way that we look at the world,
Yes, it's all in the way that we view things,
With sorrow or laughter our lips may be curled
For it's all in the way that we do things.
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
1174:Did I Not Say To You

Did I not say to you, “Go not there, for I am your friend; in this
mirage of annihilation I am the fountain of life?”
Even though in anger you depart a hundred thousand years
from me, in the end you will come to me, for I am your goal.
Did I not say to you, “Be not content with worldly forms, for I
am the fashioner of the tabernacle of your contentment?”
Did I not say to you, “I am the sea and you are a single fish;
go not to dry land, for I am your crystal sea?”
Did I not say to you, “ Go not like birds to the snare; come, for
I am the power of flight and your wings and feet?”
Did I not say to you, “ They will waylay you and make you
cold, for I am the fire and warmth and heat of your desire?”
Did I not say to you, “ They will implant in you ugly qualities
so that you will forget that I am the source of purity to you?”
Did I not say to you, “Do not say from what direction the ser-
vant’s affairs come into order?” I am the Creator without
directions.
If you are the lamp of the heart, know where the road is to the
house; and if you are godlike of attribute, know that I am your
Maser. ~ Rumi,
1175:The Christian’s New Year Prayer
Thou Christ of mine, Thy gracious ear low bending
Through these glad New Year days,
To catch the countless prayers to heaven ascending –
For e’en hard hearts do raise
Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power,
Or freedom from all care –
Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour,
Hear now a Christian’s prayer.
Let this young year, silent, walks beside me,
Be as a means of grace
To lead me up, no matter what betide me,
Nearer the Master’s face.
If it need be ere I reach the Fountain
Where living waters play,
My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain,
Then cast them in my way.
If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses
To shape it for Thy crown,
Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses,
With sorrows bear it down.
Do what Thou wilt to mould me to Thy pleasure,
And if I should complain,
Heap full of anguish yet another measure
Until I smile at pain.
Send dangers – deaths! but tell me how to dare them;
Enfold me in Thy care.
Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them –
This is a Christian’s prayer.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
1176:Our faith may be strengthened by noticing what the blood has already accomplished. Heaven and hell bear witness to that. Faith will grow by exercising confidence in the fathomless fullness of the promises of God. Let us heartily expect that as we enter more deeply into the fountain, its cleansing, quickening, life-giving power, will be revealed more blessedly. We know that in bathing we enter into the most intimate relationship with the water, giving ourselves up to its cleansing effects. The blood of Jesus is described as a “fountain opened for sin and uncleanness.” (Zech. xiii, I). By the power of the Holy Spirit it streams through the heavenly Temple. By faith I place myself in closest touch with this heavenly stream, I yield myself to it, I let it cover me, and go through me. I bathe in the fountain. It cannot withhold its cleansing and strengthening power. I must in simple faith turn away from what is seen, to plunge into that spiritual fountain, which represents the Savior’s blood, with the assurance that it will manifest its blessed power in me. So let us with childlike, persevering, expectant faith, open our souls to an ever increasing experience of the wonderful power of the blood. ~ Andrew Murray,
1177:I Leave Thee For Awhile
I leave thee for awhile, my love, I leave thee with a sigh;
The fountain spring within my soul is playing in mine eye;
I do not blush to own the tear,--let, let it touch my cheek,
And what my lip has failed to tell, that drop perchance may speak.
Mavourneen! when again I seek my green isle in the West,
Oh, promise thou wilt share my lot, and set this heart at rest.
I leave thee for awhile, my love; but every hour will be
Uncheered and lonely till the one that brings me back to thee.
I go to make my riches more; but where is man to find
A vein of gold so rich and pure as that I leave behind?
Mavourneen! though my home might be the fairest earth possessed,
Till thou wouldst share and make it warm, this heart would know no rest.
I leave thee for awhile, my love; my cheek is cold and white,
But ah, I see a promise stand within thy glance of light;
When next I seek old, Erin's shore, thy step will bless it too,
And then the grass will seem more green, the sky will have more blue.
Mavourneen! first and dearest loved, there's sunshine in my breast,
For thou wilt share my future lot, and set this heart at rest.
~ Eliza Cook,
1178:Remember, dear Friends, that this day, as truly as on that early morning, a division must be made among us. Either you must this day accept Christ as your King, or else His blood will be on you. I bring my Master out before your eyes and say to you, “Behold your King.” Are you willing to yield obedience to Him? He claims, first, your implicit faith in His merit—will you yield to that? He claims, next, that you will take Him to be Lord of your heart and that, as He shall be Lord within, so He shall be Lord without. Which shall it be? Will you choose Him now? Does the Holy Spirit in your soul—for without Him you never will—does the Holy Spirit say, “Bow the knee and take Him as your king?” Thank God, then. But if not, His blood is on you, to condemn you. You crucified Him. Pilate, Caiaphas, Herod, the Jews and Romans, all meet in you. You scourged Him. You said, “Let Him be crucified.” Do not say it was not so. In effect you join their clamors when you refuse Him. When you go your way to your farm and to your merchandise, and despise His love and His blood—you do spiritually what they did literally—you despise the King of kings. Come to the fountain of His blood and wash and be clean, by His Grace. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1179:I have just taught Soli to make borscht! Yesterday I bought beets with big, glossy leaves still caked with wet soil. Naneh washed them in the tub until her arthritis flared, but she's promised to make dolmas with the leaves. After we closed Soli tucked the beets under coals and roasted them all night. When I woke up I smelled caramel and winter and smoke. It made me so hungry, I peeled a hot, slippery one for breakfast and licked the ashes and charred juices off with my burnt fingertips. Noor, bruised from betrayal, remembered borscht, remembered stirring sour cream into the broth and making pink paisley shapes with the tip of her spoon, always surprised by the first tangy taste, each time anticipating sweetness. Her mother had called it a soup for the brokenhearted.
She marveled at her father's enthusiasm for borscht, when for thirty years each day had been a struggle. Another man would've untied his apron long ago and left the country for a softer life, but not Zod. He would not walk away from his courtyard with its turquoise fountain and rose-colored tables beneath the shade of giant mulberry trees, nor the gazebo, now overgrown with jasmine, where an orchestra once played and his wife sang into the summer nights. ~ Donia Bijan,
1180:Come out, come out, little Harry!" she called in her mock-baby voice, which echoed off the polished wooden floors. "What did you come after me for, then? I thought you were here to avenge my dear cousin!"

"I am!" shouted Harry, and a score of ghostly Harrys seemed to chorus I am! I am! I am! all around the room.

"Aaaaaah... did you love him, little baby Potter?"

Hatred rose in Harry such as he had never known before. He flung himself out from behind the fountain and bellowed "Crucio!"

Bellatrix screamed. The spell had knocked her off her feet, but she did not writhe and shriek with the pain as Neville had -- she was already on her feet again, breathless, no longer laughing. Harry dodged behind the garden fountain again -- her counterspell hit the head of the handsome wizard, which was blown off and landed twenty feet away, gouging long scratches into the wooden floor.

"Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?" she yelled. She had abandoned her baby voice now. "You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain -- to enjoy it -- righteous anger won't hurt me for long -- I'll show you how it is done, shall I? I'll give you a lesson--! ~ J K Rowling,
1181:Ringleted Youth Of My Love
RINGLETED youth of my love,
With thy locks bound loosely behind thee,
You passed by the road above,
But you never came in to find me;
Where were the harm for you
If you came for a little to see me,
Your kiss is a wakening dew
Were I ever so ill or so dreamy.
If I had golden store
I would make a nice little boreen,
To lead straight up to his door,
The door of the house of my stóreen;
Hoping to God not to miss
The sound of his footfall in it,
I have waited so long for his kiss
That for days I have not slept a minute.
I thought, oh my love! you were so—
As the moon is, or the sun on a fountain,
And I thought after that you were snow,
The cold snow on the top of the mountain;
And I thought after that you were more
Like God’s lamp shining to find me,
Or the bright star of knowledge before,
And the star of knowledge behind me.
You promised me high-heeled shoes,
And satin and silk, my stóreen,
And to follow me, never to lose,
Though the ocean were round us roaring;
Like a bush in a gap in a wall
I am now left lonely without thee,
And this house I grow dead of, is all
That I see around or about me.
~ Douglas Hyde,
1182:A Dream Of The Orient
With a resplendent Eastern bride,
Like a houri at my side,
And music round us swelling,
’Mid odours of so rare a steam
That like a breath of love they seem,
Dwell I through a radiant dream
In an orient dwelling.
Near a fair fountain flashing high
In the pleasure court we lie,
Each on a gorgeous pillow;
The columned water mounting breaks
In outward curves and falling flakes,
Till the whole a picture makes
Of a crystal willow.
Wide round us galleried walls extend,
Pierced with arcs and aisles that bend
On wreathen pillars slender;
While hung in every vista—lo!
Such clouds of blazoned banners glow
As in very semblance show
A constant sunset splendour.
And virgin faces, darkly bright
Like the countenance of night
Seen in its starry glory,
All ministrant, around us throng,
And breathe their pathos into song,
Or in tones as rich prolong
Some wild melodious story.
Till, hark! Through many voices, one
Like a gush of gold doth run—
“Why, why should kindred sever?
Our life is this perpetual feast
Of being, from all care released—
Sunny souls are for the East;
Then dwell with us for ever.”
11
~ Charles Harpur,
1183:The Rhyme Of The O'sullivan
Pro Bono Publico
Went out the streets to scan,
And marching to and fro
He met a seedy man,
Who did a tale unfold
In solemn tones and slow
And this is what he told
Pro Bono Publico.
"For many years I led
The people's onward march;
I was the 'Fountain Head',
The 'Democratic Arch'.
"In more than regal state
I used to sit and smile,
And bridges I'd donate,
And railways by the mile.
"I pawned the country off
For many million quid,
And spent it like a toff -So hel me, Bob, I did.
"But now those times are gone,
The wind blows cold and keen;
I sit and think upon
The thing that I have been.
"And if a country town
Its obligation shirks,
I press for money down
To pay for water works.
"A million pounds or two
Was naught at all to me -And now I have to sue
For paltry £ s d!
445
"Alas, that such a fate
Should come to such a man,
Who once was called the Great -The great O'Sullivan!"
With weary steps and slow,
With tears of sympathy
Pro Bono Publico
Went sadly home to tea.
Remarking, as he went,
With sad and mournful brow,
"The cash that party spent -I wish I had it now!"
~ Banjo Paterson,
1184:The Quiet Eye
THE ORB I like is not the one
That dazzles with its lightning gleam;
That dares to look upon the sun,
As though it challenged brighter beam.
That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll;
Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly;
But not for me: I prize the soul
That slumbers in a quiet eye.
There ’s something in its placid shade
That tells of calm, unworldly thought;
Hope may be crown’d, or joy delay’d—
No dimness steals, no ray is caught.
Its pensive language seems to say,
“I know that I must close and die;”
And death itself, come when it may,
Can hardly change the quiet eye.
There ’s meaning in its steady glance,
Of gentle blame or praising love,
That makes me tremble to advance
A word, that meaning might reprove.
The haughty threat, the fiery look,
My spirit proudly can defy,
But never yet could meet and brook
The upbraiding of a quiet eye.
There ’s firmness in its even light,
That augurs of a breast sincere:
And, oh! take watch how ye excite
That firmness till it yield a tear.
Some bosoms give an easy sigh,
Some drops of grief will freely start,
But that which sears the quiet eye
Hath its deep fountain in the heart.
~ Eliza Cook,
1185:For he has already borne in himself what we could never have borne and survived. He endured such hostility against himself because he was committed to our freedom from the power of sin. When I consider just how unfair it might have been for God to have created that tree in Eden that caused so much grief and pain, I only have to look at the cross. Why could he put the tree there? Because he had already determined that he would pay the greatest price for the stumbling block it would be for Adam and Eve. Even in giving us the freedom to trust him or trust ourselves, God already knew that he would suffer the most for that choice. Somehow to him, the glory of fellowship with his created ones outweighs any price he had to pay to experience it. By enduring to the end, sin was fully conquered in him. Its spell over humanity was broken and no longer does anyone have to be consumed by sin itself, nor God's wrath against it. The antidote had not only worked in him, by doing so it had produced in his blood a fountain of life as well. Transfused into any person who desires it, his blood can cleanse us of sin and reunite us with God himself--fulfilling the dream that he had when he first decided to create man and woman and place them in the center of his creation. ~ Wayne Jacobsen,
1186:The Blood Horse
GAMARRA is a dainty steed,
Strong, black, and of a noble breed,
Full of fire, and full of bone,
With all his line of fathers known;
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,
But blown abroad by the pride within!
His mane is like a river flowing,
And his eyes like embers glowing
In the darkness of the night,
And his pace as swift as light.
Look,—how ’round his straining throat
Grace and shifting beauty float!
Sinewy strength is on his reins,
And the red blood gallops through his veins;
Richer, redder, never ran
Through the boasting heart of man.
He can trace his lineage higher
Than the Bourbon dare aspire,—
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
Or O’Brien’s blood itself!
He, who hath no peer, was born
Here, upon a red March morn:
But his famous fathers dead
Were Arabs all, and Arab bred,
And the last of that great line
Trod like one of a race divine!
And yet,—he was but friend to one
Who fed him at the set of sun,
By some lone fountain ’fringed with green:
With him, a roving Bedouin,
He liv’d,—(none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day,)—
And died untam’d upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands!
~ Barry Cornwall,
1187:You have been vitally and concretely grafted into the tangible bliss of the Godhead. Miracles. Healing. A flourishing, prosperous life. The daily enjoyment of His intoxicating presence. This is ours. Absolute freedom from sin as you recognize your true God-given righteousness. Not holy in theory alone … your entire old corrupted self was co-crucified with Him, as you shared a death with Him. I have been co-crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by the faithfulness of the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me (Gal. 2:20). As a new creation, you have been liberated from the struggle of self-improvement. Absolutely flawless, our old fearful, sinful, blemished selves have been eradicated once and for all. Perfected once and for all by His sacrifice, we can drink daily from the fountain of our union with Him, no longer expecting defeat. As our mind changes regarding the truth of our identity, our outward lives bear corresponding fruit. No longer believing the false humility pop mantra of our times that we are “still sinners” bound to decay, poverty, disease or addiction. We are sons and daughters – our true identity shines from the inside out chock-full of inheritance. Right here. Right now. ~ John Crowder,
1188:9:10). Since the fear of the Lord is the great treasure of life, Proverbs tries to woo us to it. It tries to make the fear of the Lord as attractive as possible. Those who fear the Lord will fear nothing else (19:23). The fear of the Lord adds length to life (10:27), it is a secure fortress for the one who fears and for his or her children (14:26). It is a fountain of life (15:16), it brings honor (22:4), and it should be praised when we see it (31:30). What does the fear of the Lord look like? It looks like loving good and hating evil. “The fear of the LORD is to hate evil” (8:13). It looks like trusting God (reverence) and obeying him. Can you see that the fear of the Lord is a blessing? Just imagine what it would be like to truly hate sin, first our own, then the sins of others (Matt. 7:3-5). What would happen to marital fights? They would be almost impossible. Spouses would be too busy listening and asking forgiveness for their own selfishness. What about the little cliques in the school yard? They would be telling good stories about somebody else. What about when someone sins against us? We would no longer have to murder the person in our own heart. Instead, we could cover the sin in humility and love, or we could confront the other person in the same spirit. ~ Edward T Welch,
1189:It's be when you first learn to walk that I get daily demonstrations of the asymmetry in our relationship. You'll be incessantly running off somewhere, and each time you walk into a door frame or scrape your knee, the pain feels like it's my own. It'll be like growing an errant limb, an extension of myself whose sensory nerves report pain just fine, but whose motor nerves don't convey my commands at all. It's so unfair: I'm going to give birth to an animated voodoo doll of myself. I didn't see this in the contract when I signed up. Was this part of the deal?
And then there will be the times when I see you laughing. Like the time you'll be playing with the neighbor's puppy, poking your hands through the chain-link fence separating our back yards, and you'll be laughing so hard you'll start hiccuping. The puppy will run inside the neighbor's house, and your laughter will gradually subside, letting you catch your breath. Then the puppy will come back to the fence to lick your fingers again, and you'll shriek and start laughing again. it will be the most wonderful sound I could ever imagine, a sound that makes me feel like a fountain, or a wellspring.
Now if only I can remember that sound the next time your blithe disregard for self-preservation gives me a heart attack. ~ Ted Chiang,
1190:We have resolved to know nothing but Christ and Him crucified. All revelation and experience flow out of this fountain. O the depths and the riches! God has forever poured Himself out in a concrete act of assuming our human nature and redeeming mankind completely from depravity, decay and alienation. This was not a limited act for a select few. For God was in Christ reconciling the cosmos to Himself (2 Cor. 5:19). There is no limited atonement any more than there is a limited incarnation. Fully man for all of humanity. Christ plunged headlong into the human condition. Sinless though He was, He assumed fallen flesh like ours at its most corrupted level. He baptized that same humanity in His death and brought it back to life in the will of the Father and the power of Holy Spirit. Such a mystical connection we have! Christ wove mankind into the Trinitarian life – there is forever a resurrected human being sitting in the middle of the Godhead. And there we sit in Him, fully united to God in heavenly places. In assuming the human form, He assumed and included all of humanity into Himself. As early Church father Gregory Nazianzen says, “the unassumed is the unredeemed.” And we know from the apostle Paul that “as in Adam all die, so in Christ all will be made alive” (1 Cor. 15:22). ~ John Crowder,
1191:Mary Arden
When a simple English maiden,
Nested warm in Wilmicote,
Sang forth like a lark uprising
Heavenward with its morning note,
Did no English ear that listened,
Even then, foretouched by fame,
Tremble to the prophet-music
Fountain-headed in thy name,
Mary Arden?
And to thee thyself, O tell me!
Shade of Shakespeare’s mother, tell me!
Did no dazzling vision come,
Banishing all thoughts of gloom,
Of the bardic grandeurs waiting
On thy matron fate, when He
Who in time should call thee mother
Should all time’s subjector be,
Mary Arden?
Then a mother we behold thee,
With that babe upon thy breast,
That great nascent soul, so bird-like,
Babbling in its fragrant nest:
O what spirit sweetly human,
O what instincts mildly wise,
Sucked he from those mother-fountains,
Drew he from those mother-eyes,
Mary Arden?
But shall we, now spirit-basking
In the noonblaze of his fame,
Fail to read a sign prophetic
In thy lovely maiden name?
No; it is the star that trembled
O’er a royal poet’s birth;
And amongst immortal Maries,
Second to but one on earth,
Mary Arden!
Glory to thee! Mary Arden!
102
Shakespeare’s mother! England’s Mary!
~ Charles Harpur,
1192:O, Pity The Slave Mother
I pity the slave mother, careworn and weary,
Who sighs as she presses her babe to her breast;
I lament her sad fate, all so hopeless and dreary,
I lament for her woes, and her wrongs unredressed.
O who can imagine her heart's deep emotion,
As she thinks of her children about to be sold;
You may picture the bounds of the rock-girdled ocean,
But the grief of that mother can never be known.
The mildew of slavery has blighted each blossom,
That ever has bloomed in her path-way below;
It has froze every fountain that gushed in her bosom,
And chilled her heart's verdure with pitiless woe;
Her parents, her kindred, all crushed by oppression;
Her husband still doomed in its desert to stay;
No arm to protect from the tyrant's aggressionShe must weep as she treads on her desolate way.
O, slave mother, hope! see-the nation is shaking!
The arm of the Lord is awake to thy wrong!
The slave-holder's heart now with terror is quaking,
Salvation and Mercy to Heaven belong!
Rejoice, O rejoice! for the child thou art rearing,
May one day lift up its unmanacled form,
While hope, to thy heart, like the rain-bow so cheering,
Is born, like the rain-bow, 'mid tempest and storm.
~ Anonymous Americas,
1193:For one moment, she stood stock-still, drinking in the simple beauty of the marble fountain, the base of its pedestal wreathed in delicate fronds, that stood, glowing lambently in the soft white light, in the center of a small, secluded, fern-shrouded clearing. Water poured steadily from the pitcher of the partially clad maiden frozen forever in her task of filling the wide, scroll-lipped basin.
The area had clearly been designed to provide the lady of the house with a private, refreshing, calming retreat in which to embroider, or simply rest and gather thoughts. In the moonlit night, surrounded by mysterious shadow and steeped in a silence rendered only more intense by the distant sighing of music and the silvery tinkle of the water, it was a hauntingly magical place.
For three heartbeats, the magic held Patience immobile.
Then, through the fine silk of her gown, she felt the heat of Vane's body. He did not touch her, but that heat, and the flaring awareness that raced through her, had her quickly stepping forward. Hauling in a desperate breath, she gestured to the fountain. "It's lovely."
"Hmm," came from close behind.
Too close behind. Patience found herself heading for a stone bench, shaded by a canopy of palms. Stifling a gasp, she veered away, toward the fountain. ~ Stephanie Laurens,
1194:If I had to tell you how humans made their way to Earth, it would go like this: In the beginning, there was nothing at all but the moon and the sun. And the moon wanted to come out during the day, but there was something so much brighter that seemed to fill up all those hours. The moon grew hungry, thinner and thinner, until she was just a slice of herself, and her tips were as sharp as a knife. By accident, because that is the way most things happen, she poked a hole in the night and out spilled a million stars, like a fountain of tears.

Horrified, the moon tried to swallow them up. And sometimes this worked, because she got fatter and rounder.. But mostly it didn't, because there were just so many. The stars kept coming, until they made the sky so bright that the sun got jealous. He invited the stars to his side of the world, where it was always bright. What he didn't tell them, though, was that in the daytime, they'd never be seen. So the stupid ones leaped from the sky to the ground, and they froze under the weight of their own foolishness.

The moon did her best. She carved each of these blocks of sorrow into a man or a woman. She spent the rest of her time watching out so that her other stars wouldn't fall. She spent the rest of her time holding onto whatever scraps she had left. ~ Jodi Picoult,
1195:Did your dad say anything about Nick and Daisy?"
"He-" I started. Then I caught a blur out of the corner of my eye, and something landed in the fountain with a resounding splash, drenching me and Jenna in a wave of pink water.
Nick surfaced, tossing his head back and sending dropets flying. If a demon and a vampire both staring at him with identical looks of "WTF,dude?" bothered him, he didn't show it.
Instead,he gave his usualy creepy grin and asked, "Did one of you lovely ladies say my name?"
"Yeah," I said,glaring at him as I wrung water out of my braid. "We were just saying, 'Man,I wish Nick would fling himself into the fountain like a nut job and totally ruin our clothes.' So thanks for that."
"Sophie's right," Daisy said, coming to stand next to the fountain. Apparently, wherever Nick was, she was right behind. "Tell them you're sorry." Her words might have sounded sterner if she hadn't been looking at Nick like he was something tasty to eat. God,they were weird.
Nick sloshed through the water until he was right in front of me and Jenna. "That's actually why I came out here, my darling," he said to Daisy. "Sophie, I was a jerk to you yesterday."
He didn't actually say 'jerk," but another word that was way more accurate. I just raised my eyebrows and waited for him to continue. ~ Rachel Hawkins,
1196:As there is an infinite fulness of all possible good in God — a fulness of every perfection, of all excellency and beauty, and of infinite happiness — and as this fulness is capable of communication, or emanation ad extra; so it seems a thing amiable and valuable in itself that this infinite fountain of good should send forth abundant streams. And as this is in itself excellent, so a disposition to this in the Divine Being, must he looked upon as an excellent disposition. Such an emanation of good is, in some sense, a multiplication of it. So far as the stream may be looked upon as any thing besides the fountain, so far it may be looked on as an increase of good. And if the fulness of good that is in the fountain, is in itself excellent, then the emanation, which is as it were an increase, repetition, or multiplication of it, is excellent. Thus it is fit, since there is an infinite fountain of light and knowledge, that this light should shine forth in beams of communicated knowledge and understanding; and, as there is an infinite fountain of holiness, moral excellence, and beauty, that so it should flow out in communicated holiness. And that, as there is an infinite fulness of joy and happiness, so these should have an emanation, and become a fountain flowing out in abundant streams, as beams from the sun. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
1197:STAY CLOSE, MY HEART

Stay close, my heart, to the one who knows your ways;
Come into the shade of the tree that allays has fresh flowers.
Don't stroll idly through the bazaar of the perfume-markers:
Stay in the shop of the sugar-seller.
If you don't find true balance, anyone can deceive you;
Anyone can trick out of a thing of straw,
And make you take it for gold
Don't squat with a bowl before every boiling pot;
In each pot on the fire you find very different things.
Not all sugarcanes have sugar, not all abysses a peak;
Not all eyes possess vision, not every sea is full of pearls.
O nightingale, with your voice of dark honey! Go on lamenting!
Only your drunken ecstasy can pierce the rock's hard heart!
Surrender yourself, and if you cannot be welcomes by the Friend,
Know that you are rebelling inwardly like a thread
That doesn't want to go through the needle's eye!
The awakened heart is a lamp; protect it by the him of your robe!
Hurry and get out of this wind, for the weather is bad.
And when you've left this storm, you will come to a fountain;
You'll find a Friend there who will always nourish your soul.
And with your soul always green, you'll grow into a tall tree
Flowering always with sweet light-fruit, whose growth is interior. ~ Rumi,
1198:LADY CROOM: ....My lake is drained to a ditch for no purpose I can understand, unless it be that snipe and curlew have deserted three counties so that they may be shot in our swamp. What you painted as forest is a mean plantation, your greenery is mud, your waterfall is wet mud, and your mount is an opencast mine for the mud that was lacking in the dell. (Pointing through the window) What is that cowshed?

NOAKES: The hermitage, my lady?

LADY CROOM: It is a cowshed.

NOAKES: It is, I assure you, a very habitable cottage, properly founded and drained, two rooms and a closet under a slate roof and a stone chimney --

LADY CROOM: And who is to live in it?

NOAKES: Why, the hermit.

LADY CROOM: Where is he?

NOAKES: Madam?

LADY CROOM: You surely do not supply an hermitage without a hermit?

NOAKES: Indeed, madam --

LADY CROOM: Come, come, Mr Noakes. If I am promised a fountain I expect it to come with water. What hermits do you have?

NOAKES: I have no hermits, my lady.

LADY CROOM: Not one? I am speechless.

NOAKES: I am sure a hermit can be found. One could advertise.

LADY CROOM: Advertise?

NOAKES: In the newspapers.

LADY CROOM: But surely a hermit who takes a newspaper is not a hermit in whom one can have complete confidence. ~ Tom Stoppard,
1199:For Dolly -- Who Does Not Learn Her Lessons
You see the fairies dancing in the fountain,
Laughing, leaping, sparkling with the spray;
You see the gnomes, at work beneath the mountain,
Make gold and silver and diamonds every day;
You see the angels, sliding down the moonbeams,
Bring white dreams like sheaves of lilies fair;
You see the imps, scarce seen against the moonbeams,
Rise from the bonfire's blue and liquid air.
All the enchantment, all the magic there is
Hid in trees and blossoms, to you is plain and true.
Dewdrops in lupin leaves are jewels for the fairies;
Every flower that blows is a miracle for you.
Air, earth, water, fire, spread their splendid wares for you.
Millions of magics beseech your little looks;
Every soul your winged soul meets, loves you and cares for you.
Ah! why must we clip those wings and dim those eyes with books?
Soon, soon enough the magic lights grow dimmer,
Marsh mists arise to cloud the radiant sky,
Dust of hard highways will veil the starry glimmer,
Tired hands will lay the folded magic by.
Storm winds will blow through those enchanted closes,
Fairies be crushed where weed and briar grow strong . . .
Leave her her crown of magic stars and roses,
Leave her her kingdom--she will not keep it long!
~ Edith Nesbit,
1200:The age old question, what is Love?

Isn't it the greatest gift from the holy one Above?

Is it pure and white like a new born Dove?

Does it cuddle you up,Like a hand in a Glove?



Answer this hard question that what is LOVE??

the force that propels you ,through pain and despair,

the benevolence,the blessings,from the heavens above,

the ray of sunshine that pierces the clouds, a perennial hope, that's what is love;

Its the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel,

Its the mirth that ends melancholy's reign,
A fountain of glee,the elixir of life,

Its the drug that heals,and cures all the pain;

Its an eternal promise, never meant to be broken,

Its the bond that adheres two hearts together,

People may die and their stories may end,

But their love is immortal,it lives on forever;

Its the river that cuts through boulders and rocks,

and the stream that flows through our barren lives,

And on its long course,

it leaves behind a trail Of vivid fragrant flowers,and clear blue skies;

Love is felt by the heart,relished by the soul,

Blissful like the divine touch of the Gods,

I yearn for more ballads and more metaphors,

But i fall short of verses, can't bind love in words. ~ Anamika Mishra,
1201:Itzy Fisher?" Delia accused when I sat back down. "You like her?" And then she got up and ran out of the cafeteria.
Groaning, I flopped my head down on my arms. "I isn't make that card for Itzy. It was for Delia."
"Delia?" Fitz said.
"You wouldn't understand."
Fitz stared right at me. "What makes you think that?"
In the thousands of times I have replayed this moment over the years, I realize what that happened next could have gone a different way. That had Fitz been less of a best friend, or more competitive, or even more honest with himself, my life would have turned out very different. But instead, he asked me for a dollar.
"Why?"
"Because she's pissed at you," he said, as I finished into my lunch money. "And I can fix that."
He took a Sharpie from his binder and wrote something across George Washington's Face. Then he crested the bill the long way. He brought up the bottom edge and then the halves, turned it over, and tucked in both sides. A few more maneuvers and then he handed me a dollar folded into the shape of a heart.
When I found Delia, she was sitting underneath the water fountain near the gym. I handed her Fitz's heart. I watched her open it, read the message along with her: If all I could ever have is you, I'd be a billionaire.
"Itzy might get jealous," Delia said.
"Itzy and I broke up. ~ Jodi Picoult,
1202:If there was a religion of Annaism, and I had to tell you how humans made their way to Earth, it would go like this: In the beginning, there was nothing at all but the moon and the sun. And the moon wanted to come out during the day, but there was something so much brighter that seemed to fill up all those hours. The moon grew hungry, thinner and thinner, until she was just a slice of herself, and her tips were as sharp as a knife. By accident, because that is the way most things happen, she poked a hole in the night and out spilled a million stars, like a fountain of tears.

Horrified, the moon tried to swallow them up. And sometimes this worked, because she got fatter and rounder.. But mostly it didn't, because there were just so many. The stars kept coming, until they made the sky so bright that the sun got jealous. He invited the stars to his side of the world, where it was always bright. What he didn't tell them, though, was that in the daytime, they'd never be seen. So the stupid ones leaped from the sky to the ground, and they froze under the weight of their own foolishness.

The moon did her best. She carved each of these blocks of sorrow into a man or a woman. She spent the rest of her time watching out so that her other stars wouldn't fall. She spent the rest of her time holding onto whatever scraps she had left. ~ Jodi Picoult,
1203:A dove gazed in through a latticed window: there balm rained down on her face, raining from lucent Maximin. The heat of the sun blazed out to irradiate the dark: a bud burst open, jewel-like, in the temple of the heart (limpid and kind his heart). A tower of cypress is he, and of Lebanon's cedars -- rubies and sapphires frame his turrets -- a city passing the arts of all other artisans. A swift stag is he who ran to the fountain -- pure wellspring from a stone of power -- to water sweet-smelling spices. O perfumers! you who dwell in the luxuriance of royal gardens, climbing high when you accomplish the holy sacrifice with rams: Among you this architect is shining, a wall of the temple, he who longed for an eagle's wings as he kissed his foster-mother Wisdom in Ecclesia's garden. O Maximin, mountain and valley, on your towering height the mountain goat leapt with the elephant, and Wisdom was in rapture. Strong and sweet in the sacred rites and the shimmer of the altar, you rise like incense to the pillar of praise -- where you pray for your people who strive toward the mirror of light. Praise him! Praise in the highest! [1826.jpg] -- from Symphonia: A Critical Edition of the Symphonia armonie celstium revelationum, by Hildegard of Bingen / Translated by Barbara Newman

~ Saint Hildegard von Bingen, Columba aspexit - Sequence for Saint Maximin
,
1204:THREE BIG MISTAKES. But, of course, it’s never that simple. Before we even got to the third one, we were down and done. As much as our willingness to believe in the constant rise felled us, as much as our eagerness to conquer risk opened us up to more risk, as much as Greenspan stood by as Wall Street turned itself into Las Vegas, there was also Greece, and Iceland, and Nick Leeson, who took down Barings, and Brian Hunter, who tanked Amaranth, and Jérôme Kerviel and every other rogue trader who thought he—and it was always a he—could reverse his gut-churning, self-induced free fall with one swift, lucky strike; it was rising oil prices, global inflation, easy credit, the cowardice of Moody’s, the growing chasm of income inequality, the dot com boom and bust, the Fed’s rejection of regulation, the acceptance of “too big to fail,” the repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act, the feast of subprime debt; it was Clinton and Bush the second and senators vacationing with banking industry lobbyists, the Kobe earthquake, an infatuation with financial innovation, the forgettable Hank Paulson, the delicious hubris of ten, twenty, thirty times leverage, and, at the bottom of it, our own vicious, lingering self-doubt. Or was it our own willful, unbridled self-delusion? Doubt vs. delusion. The flip sides of our last lucky coin. We toss it in the fountain and pray. ~ Jade Chang,
1205:Love And Life
I.
AS some faint wisp of fragrance, floating wide—
A pennant-perfume on the evening air—
From a walled garden, flower-filled and fair,
To drape a sudden beauty long denied
Upon life's highway desolate and dried—
So come you to me, as I, unaware,
Bend my strict eyes upon my pathway bare;
But at your presence straight I turn aside,
And passing in the garden see uncurled
The heart of hidden beauty in the world,
And love as life's one blossom is revealed.
My backward glance your floating tresses blind,
About my struggling hopes your white arms wind,
And I have yielded—but how sweet to yield!
II.
Yet, in the prison of the garden bound,
The sluggish perfumes o'er my spirit fall,
And I lie languid in their sweetness' thrall,
Beneath the fragrance of much beauty drowned:
When through the fountain's murmur—lo, a sound
Insistent and reproachful! O'er the wall
Drops a faint echo of the Earth's deep call,
And I leap upright from the rose-strewn ground.
Outside the bracing wind sings, clean and chill;
Outside are tasks to do, blows to be struck;
And I must toil the dreary highway till
It broadens to the fields of death. Yet, ere
I leave for aye your perfumed close, I pluck
A shrivelled blossom that I kiss and wear.
~ Arthur Henry Adams,
1206:Jeremiah 9:1 OH that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people! Jeremiah 9:2   2  Oh that I had in the wilderness a lodging place of wayfaring men; that I might leave my people, and go from them! for they be all adulterers, an assembly of treacherous men. Jeremiah 9:3   3  And they bend their tongues like their bow for lies: but they are not valiant for the truth upon the earth; for they proceed from evil to evil, and they know not me, saith the LORD. Jeremiah 9:4   4  Take ye heed every one of his neighbour, and trust ye not in any brother: for every brother will utterly supplant, and every neighbour will walk with slanders. Jeremiah 9:5   5  And they will deceive every one his neighbour, and will not speak the truth: they have taught their tongue to speak lies, and weary themselves to commit iniquity. Jeremiah 9:6   6  Thine habitation is in the midst of deceit; through deceit they refuse to know me, saith the LORD. Jeremiah 9:7   7  Therefore thus saith the LORD of hosts, Behold, I will melt them, and try them; for how shall I do for the daughter of my people? Jeremiah 9:8   8  Their tongue is as an arrow shot out; it speaketh deceit: one speaketh peaceably to his neighbour with his mouth, but in heart he layeth his wait. ~ The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints,
1207:A slave in serving dress presented Kestrel with wine, then led the way to an open solarium with a low fountain and hothouse flowers. Musicians played discreetly behind an ebony screen as guests greeted each other, some chatting where they stood, others retreating for quiet conversations on the stone benches lining the fountain.
Kestrel turned to face Arin.
His eyes were dazed with anger, his hands clenched.
“Arin,” she began, concerned, but his gaze flicked away and settled on some point across the room. “Your friends are here,” he said.
She followed his line of sight to see Jess and Ronan laughing at something Benix had said.
“Dismiss me,” Arin said.
“What?” she said, though in fact he was the only escort in the room. The slaves who threaded through the crowd were servers, and Irex’s.
“Join your friends. I don’t want to stay here anymore. Send me to the kitchens.”
She took a breath, then nodded. He spun on his heel and was gone.
She felt instantly alone. She hadn’t expected this. But when she asked herself what she had expected, she had a foolish image of her and Arin sitting on a bench together.
Kestrel looked up at the glass roof, a pyramid of purple sky. She saw the sharp cut of the moon, and remembered Enai saying that it was best to recognize the things one cannot change.
She crossed the room to greet her friends. ~ Marie Rutkoski,
1208:Immediately beneath and about them the lines of the Gothic building plunged outwards into the void with a sickening swiftness akin to suicide. There is that element of Titan energy in the architecture of the Middle Ages that, from whatever aspect it be seen, it always seems to be rushing away, like the strong back of some maddened horse. This church was hewn out of ancient and silent stone, bearded with old fungoids and stained with the nests of birds. And yet, when they saw it from below, it sprang like a fountain at the stars; and when they saw it, as now, from above, it poured like a cataract into a voiceless pit. For these two men on the tower were left alone with the most terrible aspect of Gothic; the monstrous foreshortening and disproportion, the dizzy perspectives, the glimpses of great things small and small things great; a topsy-turvydom of stone in the mid-air. Details of stone, enormous by their proximity, were relieved against a pattern of fields and farms, pygmy in their distance. A carved bird or beast at a corner seemed like some vast walking or flying dragon wasting the pastures and villages below. The whole atmosphere was dizzy and dangerous, as if men were upheld in air amid the gyrating wings of colossal genii; and the whole of that old church, as tall and rich as a cathedral, seemed to sit upon the sunlit country like a cloudburst. ~ G K Chesterton,
1209:The world, he now perceived, was in fact a great, flat wheel with a myriad spokes of water, trees and grass, for ever turning and turning beneath the sun and moon. At each spoke was an animal-all the animals and birds he had ever known-horses, dogs, chaffinches, mice, hedgehogs,rabbits, cows, sheep, rooks and many more which he did not recognize-a huge, striped cat, and a monstrous fish spurting water in a fountain to the sky. At the centre, on the axle itself, stood a man, who ceaselessly lashed and lashed the creatures with a whip to make them drive the wheel round. Some shrieked aloud as they bled and struggled, others silently toppled and were trodden down beneath their comrades' stumbling feet. And yet, as he himself could see, the man had misconceived his task, for in fact the wheel turned of itself and all he needed to do was to keep it balanced upon its delicate axle by adjusting, as might be necessary, the numbers of animals upon this side and that. The great fish poured blood as the man pierced it with a flying spear which exploded within its body. The striped cat melted, diminishing slowly to the size of a mouse; and a great, grey beast with a long trunk cried piteously as the man tore its white tusks out of its face. Still on towards the wheel he circled, and between him and the wheel Mr. Ephraim called him silently to fellowship with the dead. ~ Richard Adams,
1210:All the royal tales got their own special festivals. In honor of the Sleeping Beauty tale, Ever After High held the yearly Beauty Sleep Festival. Everyone put on their pajamas and lay down on their beds, and a magical sleep spell rained over the castle, putting them into a restful slumber for two days.
Briar rolled her eyes. "I'd prefer my story got a dance festival with some kicky music and a chocolate fountain."
"It's kind of like a massive slumber party, so that's cool," said Ashlynn.
"Kinda," said Briar. "But the best part of a slumber party isn't the part where you're unconscious. I'm already facing a hundred years of sleep. Worst. Festival. Ever."
"You recall that the royal festival for the Cinderella story is basically just an excuse to get the students to clean the high school," said Ashlynn.
Briar laughed, putting her arm around Ashlynn. "That's true! But at least your Spring Cleaning Festival ends with a Ball."
Apple always enjoyed the Apple Festival in her story's honor- so many pies and turnovers and breads, and none of them poisoned. The whole school smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg for days. The Spring Cleaning Festival was an excellent opportunity to clean out her sock drawer and then wear a ball gown and dance till midnight. The Little Mermaid Festival took place every summer at Looking Glass Beach with swimming, beach volleyball, and a clam dig. ~ Shannon Hale,
1211:Since true life and sustenance are found in the presence of God, we must regularly drink deeply from the river of his delights. In our weariness, though, we often seek life from entertainment, empty friendships and ceaseless activity, which all fail to bring life. So many of our “recreational” activities fail to re-create the inner resources of our soul to face the challenges of each day. Like the Israelites before us, we forsake the river of God’s presence and hew out empty cisterns that do not hold water to satisfy our thirsts (Jer 2:13). Will we satisfy our soul at the fountain of living waters? Or will we hew out cisterns of putrid water that do not satisfy? The rivers of life flowing from the presence of God in Eden beckon us to the satisfaction and re-creation of these refreshing waters that are only found in the presence of God. We sacrifice for what satisfies. The soul-satisfying riches in the presence of God propel us out of our comfort zones, calling us out of the warm confines of our beds to our knees in early-morning prayer and meditation on God’s Word. Only these soul-satisfying riches can sustain us in the rigors of God’s calling on our lives as we move out to proclaim his name to the nations across the street and across the globe. A heart for mission grows out of a soul that finds satisfaction in God’s presence, the riches of which can be seen in the imagery of Eden. ~ G K Beale,
1212:Childhood
Childhood, sweet and sunny childhood,
With its careless, thoughtless air,
Like the verdant, tangled wildwood,
Wants the training hand of care.
See it springing all around us -Glad to know, and quick to learn;
Asking questions that confound us;
Teaching lessons in its turn.
Who loves not its joyous revel,
Leaping lightly on the lawn,
Up the knoll, along the level,
Free and graceful as a fawn?
Let it revel; it is nature
Giving to the little dears
Strength of limb, and healthful features,
For the toil of coming years.
He who checks a child with terror,
Stops its play, and stills its song,
Not alone commits an error,
But a great and moral wrong.
Give it play, and never fear it -Active life is no defect;
Never, never break its spirit -Curb it only to direct.
Would you dam the flowing river,
Thinking it would cease to flow?
Onward it must go forever -Better teach it where to go.
Childhood is a fountain welling,
Trace its channel in the sand,
And its currents, spreading, swelling,
Will revive the withered land.
Childhood is the vernal season;
Trim and train the tender shoot;
Love is to the coming reason,
As the blossom to the fruit.
Tender twigs are bent and folded -Art to nature beauty lends;
Childhood easily is moulded;
Manhood breaks, but seldom bends.
~ David Bates,
1213:Ho! Everyone That Thirsts, Draw Nigh
Ho! every one that thirsts, draw nigh!
('Tis God invites the fallen race)
Mercy and free salvation buy;
Buy wine, and milk, and gospel grace.
Come to the living waters, come!
Sinners, obey your Maker's call;
Return, ye weary wanderers, home,
And find my grace is free for all.
See from the Rock a fountain rise!
For you in healing streams it rolls;
Money ye need not bring, nor price,
Ye labouring, burdened, sin-sick souls.
Nothing ye in exchange shall give,
Leave all you have and are behind,
Frankly the gift of God receive,
Pardon and peace in Jesus find.
Why seek ye that which is not bread,
Nor can your hungry souls sustain?
On ashes, husks, and air ye feed;
Ye spend your little all in vain.
In search of empty joys below,
Ye toil with unavailing strife;
Whither, ah! whither would ye go?
I have the words of endless life.
Hearken to me with earnest care,
And freely eat substantial food,
The sweetness of my mercy share,
And taste that I alone am good.
I bid you all my goodness prove,
My promises for all are free,
Come, taste the manna of my love,
And let your souls delight in me.
12
Your willing ear and heart incline,
My words believingly receive;
Quickened your souls by faith divine
An everlasting life shall live.
~ Charles Wesley,
1214:Thus they were speaking when the thunderous voice came. So mighty it was that it filled every hall and chamber of the palace; and its first word dashed the pictures from the walls so that their crash and smash added to the roar, though they were lost in it. Its second word broke all the crockery in the palace and set the shards to sliding like screes of stones, so that they burst open cabinets and cupboards and descended to the floors in avalanches. Its third word toppled all the statues along the broad avenue that led up to the Great Gate; its fourth stopped the fountain and snapped off both arms of the marble nymph who blessed the waters; and its fifth cracked the basin itself. Its sixth, seventh, and eighth words maddened every cat in the place, struck dead seventeen bat-winged black rooks of the flock that swept the sky about the Grand Campanile, and set all the bells to ringing. Its ninth soured every cask in the cellars, while its tenth word stove them in. Its eleventh stopped the clocks and started the hounds to howling. Its twelfth and last (which was an especially big word) knocked the Dwarves off their feet and sent every one of them rolling and somersaulting amongst all their foulnesses while they held their ears and screeched. And what that voice said was, “What vermin are these who dare defile the body of a Giant?” Oh, my friends! Let us of this star, who are ourselves but Dwarves, heed well the warning. ~ Gene Wolfe,
1215:Plighted
Mine to the core of the heart, my beauty!
Mine, all mine, and for love, not duty:
Love given willingly, full and free,
Love for love's sake, - as mine to thee.
Duty's a slave that keeps the keys,
But Love, the master, goes in and out
Of his goodly chambers with song and shout,
Just as he please, - just as he please.
Mine, from the dear head's crown, brown-golden,
To the silken foot that's scarce beholden;
Give to a few friends hand or smile,
Like a generous lady, now and awhile,
But the sanctuary heart, that none dare win,
Keep holiest of holiest evermore;
The crowd in the aisles may watch the door,
The high-priest only enters in.
Mine, my own, without doubts or terrors,
With all thy goodnesses, all thy errors,
Unto me and to me alone revealed,
'A spring shut up, a fountain sealed.'
Many may praise thee, - praise mine as thine,
Many may love thee, - I'll love them too;
But thy heart of hearts, pure, faithful, and true,
Must be mine, mine wholly, and only mine.
Mine! - God, I thank Thee that Thou hast given
Something all mine on this side heaven:
Something as much myself to be
As this my soul which I lift to Thee:
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,
Life of my life, whom Thou dost make
Two to the world for the world's work's sake, But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one.
~ Dinah Maria Mulock Craik,
1216:I am the wind and the wind is invisible, all the leaves tremble but I am invisible, blackbird over the dark field but I am invisible, what fills the balloon and what it moves through, knot without rope, bloom without flower, galloping without the horse, the spirit of the thing without the thing, location without dimension, without a within, song without throat, word without ink, wingless flight, dark boat in the dark night, shine without light, pure velocity, as the hammer is a hammer when it hits the nail and the nail is a nail when it meets the wood and the invisible table begins to appear out of mind, pure mind, out of nothing, pure thinking, hand of the mind, hand of the emperor, arm of the empire, void and vessel, sheath and shear, and wider, and deeper, more vast, more sure, through silence, through darkness, a vector, a violence, and even farther, and even worse, between, before, behind, and under, and even stronger, and even further, beyond form, beyond number, I labor, I lumber, I fumble forward through the valley as winter, as water, a shift in the river, I mist and frost, flexible and elastic to the task, a fountain of gravity, space curves around me, I thirst, I hunger, I spark, I burn, force and field, force and counterforce, agent and agency, push to your pull, parabola of will, massless mass and formless form, dreamless dream and nameless name, intent and rapturous, rare and inevitable, I am the thing that is hurtling towards you… ~ Richard Siken,
1217:Take away all the moral beauty and sweetness in the Word, and the Bible is left wholly a dead letter, a dry, lifeless, tasteless thing. By this is seen the true foundation of our duty, the worthiness of God to be so esteemed, honoured, loved, submitted to, and served, as He requires of us, and the amiableness of the duties themselves that are required of us. And by this is seen the true evil of sin; for he who sees the beauty of holiness must necessarily see the hatefulness of sin, its contrary. By this men understand the true glory of heaven, which consists in the beauty and happiness that is in holiness. By this is seen the amiableness and happiness of both saints and angels. He that sees beauty of holiness, or true moral good, sees the greatest and most important thing in the world, which is the fulness of all things, without which all the world is empty, no better than nothing, yea, worse than nothing. Unless this is seen, nothing is seen that is worth the seeing; for there is no other true excellency or beauty. Unless this be understood, nothing is understood that is worthy of the exercise of the noble faculty of understanding. This is the beauty of the Godhead, and the divinity of Divinity (if I may so speak), the good of the infinite Fountain of good; without which, God Himself (if that were possible) would be an infinite evil; without which we ourselves had better never have been; and without which there had better have been no being. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
1218:Ink was black, in inkwells and bottles, in the past. It would get all over your fingers because it would run and flow relentlessly. This inevitable messiness was the flip side of writing. I always felt caught between two kinds of black: that of the dirty and dirtying substance and that of the signs that miraculously emerged from it through the magic of wayward fountain pens, which, when dipped too deep in the inkwell, had a strong tendency to cover the paper with what used to be called “inkblots.” Oh, the miracle of a clear and possibly elegant sentence emerging from the sticky ink and wending its way between the blots! It is the black of meaning wrung from the black of matter. (…) Isn’t the most profound education the one that was afforded me at my childhood elementary school, the one that divides the ink sharply between thought become Letter and drive turned into splotches and blots? How will those who begin with the darkish gray on the palish gray of computer screens manage? Without the slightest inkblot? Won’t they think that thought is just another variation of formlessness, that the intellect is just a thin additional coat of gray over the gray of drive, and drive a mere stripping of the gray of the intellect? Everything in the world is the result of a creative and careful dosing of black as it is projected onto the formidable invariability of white. Anyone who hasn’t experienced this, and sooner rather than later, will never learn anything. ~ Alain Badiou,
1219:Meanwhile, God seeks to raise them higher, to draw them out of this miserable manner of loving to a higher state of the love of God, to deliver them from the low usage of the senses and meditation whereby they seek after God, as I said before,4 in ways so miserable and so unworthy of Him. He seeks to place them in the way of the spirit wherein they may the more abundantly, and more free from imperfections, commune with God now that they have been for some time tried in the way of goodness, persevering in meditation and prayer, and because of the sweetness they found therein have withdrawn their affections from the things of this world, and gained a certain spiritual strength in God, whereby they in some measure curb their love of the creature, and are able, for the love of God, to carry a slight burden of dryness, without going back to that more pleasant time when their spiritual exercises abounded in delights, and when the sun of the divine graces shone, as they think, more clearly upon them. God is now changing that light into darkness, and sealing up the door of the fountain of the sweet spiritual waters, which they tasted in God as often and as long as they wished. For when they were weak and tender, this door was then not shut, as it is written, “Behold, I have given before thee an opened door, which no man can shut; because thou hast a little strength, and hast kept My word, and hast not denied My name.”5 4. God thus leaves them in darkness so great ~ Juan de la Cruz,
1220:To M.L. Gray,
Come, dear old friend, and with us twain
To calm Digentian groves repair;
The turtle coos his sweet refrain
And posies are a-blooming there;
And there the romping Sabine girls
Bind myrtle in their lustrous curls.
I know a certain ilex-tree
Whence leaps a fountain cool and clear.
Its voices summon you and me;
Come, let us haste to share its cheer!
Methinks the rapturous song it sings
Should woo our thoughts from mortal things.
But, good old friend, I charge thee well,
Watch thou my brother all the while,
Lest some fair Lydia cast her spell
Round him unschooled in female guile.
Those damsels have no charms for me;
Guard thou that brother,--I'll guard thee!
And, lo, sweet friend! behold this cup,
Round which the garlands intertwine;
With Massic it is foaming up,
And we would drink to thee and thine.
And of the draught thou shalt partake,
Who lov'st us for our father's sake.
Hark you! from yonder Sabine farm
Echo the songs of long ago,
With power to soothe and grace to charm
What ills humanity may know;
With that sweet music in the air,
'T is Love and Summer everywhere.
So, though no grief consumes our lot
(Since all our lives have been discreet),
Come, in this consecrated spot,
Let's see if pagan cheer be sweet.
415
Now, then, the songs; but, first, more wine.
The gods be with you, friends of mine!
~ Eugene Field,
1221:A part, immutable, unseen,
Being, before itself had been,
Became. Like dew a triple queen
Shone as the void uncovered:
The silence of deep height was drawn
A veil across the silver dawn
On holy wings that hovered.

The music of three thoughts became
The beauty, that is one white flame,
The justice that surpasses shame,
The victory, the splendour,
The sacred fountain that is whirled
From depths beyond that older world
A new world to engender.

The kingdom is extended. Night
Dwells, and I contemplate the sight
That is not seeing, but the light
That secretly is kindled,
Though oft-time its most holy fire
Lacks oil, whene'er my own Desire
Before desire has dwindled.

I see the thin web binding me
With thirteen cords of unity
Toward the calm centre of the sea.
(O thou supernal mother!)
The triple light my path divides
To twain and fifty sudden sides
Each perfect as each other.

Now backwards, inwards still my mind
Must track the intangible and blind,
And seeking, shall securely find
Hidden in secret places
Fresh feasts for every soul that strives,
New life for many mystic lives,
And strange new forms and faces.

My mind still searches, and attains
By many days and many pains
To That which Is and Was and reigns
Shadowed in four and ten;
And loses self in sacred lands,
And cries and quickens, and understands
Beyond the first Amen.
~ Aleister Crowley, The Quest
,
1222:Well I know the fountain that runs and flows, though it is night! This eternal fountain is hidden deep. Well I know where it has its spring, Though it is night! In this life's dark night, Faith has taught where this cold fountain lies, Though it is night! Its origin I cannot know, it has none, And I know all origins come from it, Though it is night! And I know there can be nothing more fair, The heavens and earth drink there, Though it is night! And I know it has no bed, And I know no one can cross its depths, Though it is night! Its clarity is never clouded, And I know all light shines from it, Though it is night! I know her streams swell so abundantly, They water people, heaven and even hell, Though it is night! The current born of this fountain I know to be wide and mighty, Though it is night! And from these two another stream flows, And I know neither comes before, Though it is night! I know Three in only one water live, And each the other feeds, Though it is night! This eternal fountain is hiding from sight Within this living bread to give us life, Though it is night! He calls all creatures to this light, And of this water they drink, though in the dark, Though it is night! This living fountain I desire, I see it here within this living bread, Though it is night! [bk1sm.gif] -- from St. John of the Cross: Alchemist of the Soul: His Life, His Poetry (Bilingual), His Prose, by Antonio T. de Nicolas

~ Saint John of the Cross, Song of the Soul That Delights in Knowing God by Faith
,
1223:What I Have Seen #3
I saw two youths: both were fair in the face,
They had set out foot to foot in life's race;
But one said to the other, 'I say now, my brother,
You are going a little too slow;
The world will look on, and say, 'See Josy John,'
We must put on more style, now, you know.'
So he tipped a plug hat on one side of his pate,
And strutted along with a Jockey Club gait;
And he carried a cane, and said, 'It is plain,
I am too fine a fellow to toil.
I can gamble and bet, and a good living get;
But my hands are too pretty to soil.
'My friend in the rear, you are slow, I am fast;
I am up with the times-I am first, you are last.
So I guess I will leave you-aw, if it won't grieve you;
I'll wait for you when I get through;
Or, when up on the hill, I'll remem-bah you still,
And-aw, mayhap I'll come and help you.'
I saw him pass on with a strut through the street;
Saw him stopped by a score of 'good boys' for a treat.
While the calm 'Josy John' went quietly on,
And kept his lips free from the bowl;
Worked at whatever came, turned from sin and from shame,
And wrote 'Purity,' 'Truth,' in his soul.
I saw two men: one was fair to behold;
The other, a drunken sot, bloated and bold.
One stood on the mountain and drank of God's fountain,
The other drank beer in the street.
Yet both started alike; but one made a 'strike,'
Which ended, you see, in defeat.
893
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
1224:The Quest
A part, immutable, unseen,
Being, before itself had been,
Became. Like dew a triple queen
Shone as the void uncovered:
The silence of deep height was drawn
A veil across the silver dawn
On holy wings that hovered.
The music of three thoughts became
The beauty, that is one white flame,
The justice that surpasses shame,
The victory, the splendour,
The sacred fountain that is whirled
From depths beyond that older world
A new world to engender.
The kingdom is extended. Night
Dwells, and I contemplate the sight
That is not seeing, but the light
That secretly is kindled,
Though oft-time its most holy fire
Lacks oil, whene'er my own Desire
Before desire has dwindled.
I see the thin web binding me
With thirteen cords of unity
Toward the calm centre of the sea.
(O thou supernal mother!)
The triple light my path divides
To twain and fifty sudden sides
Each perfect as each other.
Now backwards, inwards still my mind
Must track the intangible and blind,
And seeking, shall securely find
Hidden in secret places
Fresh feasts for every soul that strives,
New life for many mystic lives,
And strange new forms and faces.
My mind still searches, and attains
By many days and many pains
To That which Is and Was and reigns
Shadowed in four and ten;
And loses self in sacred lands,
And cries and quickens, and understands
Beyond the first Amen.
~ Aleister Crowley,
1225:John Quincy Adams on Islam: “In the seventh century of the Christian era, a wandering Arab of the lineage of Hagar [i.e., Muhammad], the Egyptian, combining the powers of transcendent genius, with the preternatural energy of a fanatic, and the fraudulent spirit of an impostor, proclaimed himself as a messenger from Heaven, and spread desolation and delusion over an extensive portion of the earth. Adopting from the sublime conception of the Mosaic law, the doctrine of one omnipotent God; he connected indissolubly with it, the audacious falsehood, that he was himself his prophet and apostle. Adopting from the new Revelation of Jesus, the faith and hope of immortal life, and of future retribution, he humbled it to the dust by adapting all the rewards and sanctions of his religion to the gratification of the sexual passion. He poisoned the sources of human felicity at the fountain, by degrading the condition of the female sex, and the allowance of polygamy; and he declared undistinguishing and exterminating war, as a part of his religion, against all the rest of mankind. THE ESSENCE OF HIS DOCTRINE WAS VIOLENCE AND LUST: TO EXALT THE BRUTAL OVER THE SPIRITUAL PART OF HUMAN NATURE…. Between these two religions, thus contrasted in their characters, a war of twelve hundred years has already raged. The war is yet flagrant…While the merciless and dissolute dogmas of the false prophet shall furnish motives to human action, there can never be peace upon earth, and good will towards men.” (Emphasis in the original) ~ Robert Spencer,
1226:The Hunchback In The Park
The hunchback in the park
A solitary mister
Propped between trees and water
From the opening of the garden lock
That lets the trees and water enter
Until the Sunday sombre bell at dark
Eating bread from a newspaper
Drinking water from the chained cup
That the children filled with gravel
In the fountain basin where I sailed my ship
Slept at night in a dog kennel
But nobody chained him up.
Like the park birds he came early
Like the water he sat down
And Mister they called Hey mister
The truant boys from the town
Running when he had heard them clearly
On out of sound
Past lake and rockery
Laughing when he shook his paper
Hunchbacked in mockery
Through the loud zoo of the willow groves
Dodging the park keeper
With his stick that picked up leaves.
And the old dog sleeper
Alone between nurses and swans
While the boys among willows
Made the tigers jump out of their eyes
To roar on the rockery stones
And the groves were blue with sailors
Made all day until bell time
A woman figure without fault
Straight as a young elm
Straight and tall from his crooked bones
145
That she might stand in the night
After the locks and chains
All night in the unmade park
After the railings and shrubberies
The birds the grass the trees the lake
And the wild boys innocent as strawberries
Had followed the hunchback
To his kennel in the dark.
~ Dylan Thomas,
1227:The Quest
A part, immutable, unseen,
Being, before itself had been,
Became. Like dew a triple queen
Shone as the void uncovered:
The silence of deep height was drawn
A veil across the silver dawn
On holy wings that hovered.
The music of three thoughts became
The beauty, that is one white flame,
The justice that surpasses shame,
The victory, the splendour,
The sacred fountain that is whirled
From depths beyond that older world
A new world to engender.
The kingdom is extended. Night
Dwells, and I contemplate the sight
That is not seeing, but the light
That secretly is kindled,
Though oft-time its most holy fire
Lacks oil, whene'er my own Desire
Before desire has dwindled.
I see the thin web binding me
With thirteen cords of unity
Toward the calm centre of the sea.
(O thou supernal mother!)
The triple light my path divides
To twain and fifty sudden sides
Each perfect as each other.
Now backwards, inwards still my mind
Must track the intangible and blind,
And seeking, shall securely find
Hidden in secret places
Fresh feasts for every soul that strives,
New life for many mystic lives,
And strange new forms and faces.
92
My mind still searches, and attains
By many days and many pains
To That which Is and Was and reigns
Shadowed in four and ten;
And loses self in sacred lands,
And cries and quickens, and understands
Beyond the first Amen.
~ Aleister Crowley,
1228:Now he reduced his progress to the rhythm of his boots -- he walked across the land until he came to the sea. Everything that impeded him had to be outweighed, even if only by a fraction, by all that drove him on. In one pan of the scales, his wound, thirst, the blister, tiredness, the heat, the aching in his feet and legs, the Stukas, the distance, the Channel; in the other, I'll wait for you, and the memory of when she had said it, which he had come to treat like a sacred site. Also, the fear of capture. His most sensual memories -- their few minutes in the library, the kiss in Whitehall -- was bleached colorless through overuse. He knew by heart certain passages from her letters, he had revisited their tussle with the vase by the fountain, he remembered the warmth from her arm at the dinner when the twins went missing. These memories sustained him, but not so easily. Too often they reminded him of where he was when he last summoned them. They lay on the far side of a great divide in time, as significant as B.C. and A.D. Before prison, before war, before the sight of a corpse became a banality.

But these heresies died when he read her last letter. He touched his breast pocket. It was a kind of genuflection. Still there. Here was something new on the scales. That he could be cleared had all the simplicity of love. Merely tasting the possibility reminded him of how much had narrowed and died. His taste for life, no less, all the old ambitions and pleasures. The prospect was of rebirth, a triumphant return. ~ Ian McEwan,
1229:On A Drop Of Dew
See how the Orient Dew,
Shed from the Bosom of the Morn
Into the blowing Roses,
Yet careless of its Mansion new;
For the clear Region where 'twas born
Round in its self incloses:
And in its little Globes Extent,
Frames as it can its native Element.
How it the purple flow'r does slight,
Scarce touching where it lyes,
But gazing back upon the Skies,
Shines with a mournful Light;
Like its own Tear,
Because so long divided from the Sphear.
Restless it roules and unsecure,
Trembling lest it grow impure:
Till the warm Sun pitty it's Pain,
And to the Skies exhale it back again.
So the Soul, that Drop, that Ray
Of the clear Fountain of Eternal Day,
Could it within the humane flow'r be seen,
Remembring still its former height,
Shuns the sweat leaves and blossoms green;
And, recollecting its own Light,
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater Heaven in an Heaven less.
In how coy a Figure wound,
Every way it turns away:
So the World excluding round,
Yet receiving in the Day.
Dark beneath, but bright above:
Here disdaining, there in Love.
How loose and easie hence to go:
How girt and ready to ascend.
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the Manna's sacred Dew destil;
White, and intire, though congeal'd and chill.
Congeal'd on Earth: but does, dissolving, run
108
Into the Glories of th' Almighty Sun.
~ Andrew Marvell,
1230:The Hunchback in the Park

The hunchback in the park
A solitary mister
Propped between trees and water
From the opening of the garden lock
That lets the trees and water enter
Until the Sunday sombre bell at dark

Eating bread from a newspaper
Drinking water from the chained cup
That the children filled with gravel
In the fountain basin where I sailed my ship
Slept at night in a dog kennel
But nobody chained him up.

Like the park birds he came early
Like the water he sat down
And Mister they called Hey mister
The truant boys from the town
Running when he had heard them clearly
On out of sound

Past lake and rockery
Laughing when he shook his paper
Hunchbacked in mockery
Through the loud zoo of the willow groves
Dodging the park keeper
With his stick that picked up leaves.

And the old dog sleeper
Alone between nurses and swans
While the boys among willows
Made the tigers jump out of their eyes
To roar on the rockery stones
And the groves were blue with sailors

Made all day until bell time
A woman figure without fault
Straight as a young elm
Straight and tall from his crooked bones
That she might stand in the night
After the locks and chains

All night in the unmade park
After the railings and shrubberies
The birds the grass the trees the lake
And the wild boys innocent as strawberries
Had followed the hunchback
To his kennel in the dark. ~ Dylan Thomas,
1231:A spring sun was shining on the rue St. Honore, as I ran down the church steps. On one corner stood a barrow full of yellow jonquils, pale violets from the Riviera, dark Russian violets, and white Roman hyacinths in a golden cloud of mimosa. The street was full of Sunday pleasure-seekers. I swung my cane and laughed with the rest. Someone overtook and passed me. He never turned, but there was the same deadly malignity in his white profile that there had been in his eyes. I watched him as long as I could see him. His lithe back expressed the same menace; every step that carried him away from me seemed to bear him on some errand connected with my destruction.

I was creeping along, my feet almost refusing to move. There began to dawn in me a sense of responsibility for something long forgotten. It began to seem as if I deserved that which he threatened: it reached a long way back - a long, long way back. It had lain dormant all these. years: it was there though, and presently it would rise and confront me. But I would try to escape; and I stumbled as best I could into the rue de Rivioli, across the Place de la Concorde and on to the Quai. I looked with sick eyes upon the sun, shining through the white foam of the fountain, pouring over the backs of the dusky bronze river-gods, on the far-away Arc, a structure of amethyst mist, on the countless vistas of grey stems and bare branches faintly green. Then I saw him again coming down one of the chestnut alleys of the Cours la Reine.

("In The Court of the Dragon") ~ Robert W Chambers,
1232:Trehill Well
There stood a low and ivied roof,
As gazing rustics tell,
In times of chivalry and song
'Yclept the holy well.
Above the ivies' branchlets gray
In glistening clusters shone;
While round the base the grass-blades bright
And spiry foxglove sprung.
The brambles clung in graceful bands,
Chequering the old gray stone
With shining leaflets, whose bright face
In autumn's tinting shone.
Around the fountain's eastern base
A babbling brooklet sped,
With sleepy murmur purling soft
Adown its gravelly bed.
Within the cell the filmy ferns
To woo the clear wave bent;
And cushioned mosses to the stone
Their quaint embroidery lent.
The fountain's face lay still as glassSave where the streamlet free
Across the basin's gnarled lip
Flowed ever silently.
Above the well a little nook
Once held, as rustics tell,
All garland-decked, an image of
The Lady of the Well.
They tell of tales of mystery,
Of darkling deeds of woe;
But no! such doings might not brook
The holy streamlet's flow.
149
Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts,
Of melancholy dreams,
By that fair fount whose sunny wall
Basks in the western beams.
When last I saw that little stream,
A form of light there stood,
That seemed like a precious gem,
Beneath that archway rude:
And as I gazed with love and awe
Upon that sylph-like thing,
Methought that airy form must be
The fairy of the spring.
Helston, 1835.
~ Charles Kingsley,
1233:Where was Bewcastle?
But then he was there, standing on the terrace some distance away, and such was the power of his presence that everyone seemed to sense it an fell back away from Alleyne even as they stopped talking. There was still all sorts of noise, of course - horses, carriage wheels, voices, the water spouting out of the fountain - but it seemed to Alleyne as if complete silence fell.
Bewcastle had already seen him. His gaze was steady and silver-eyed and inscrutable. His hand reached for the gold-handled, jewel-studded quizzing glass he always wore with formal attire and raised it halfway to his eyes in a characteristic gesture. Then he came striding along the terrace with uncharacteristic speed and did not stop coming until he had caught Alleyne up in a tight, wordless embrace that lasted perhaps a whole minute while Alleyne dipped his forehead to his brother's shoulder and felt at last that he was safe.
It was an extraordinary moment. He had been little more than a child when his father died, but Wulfric himself had been only seventeen. Alleyne had never thought of him as a father figure. Indeed, he had often resented the authority his brother wielded over them with such unwavering strictness, and often with apparant impersonality and lack of humor. He had always thought of his eldest brother as aloof, unfeeling, totally self sufficient. A cold fish. And yet it was in Wulfric's arm that he felt his homecoming most acutely. He felt finally and completely and unconditionally loved.
An extraordinary moment indeed. ~ Mary Balogh,
1234:You know, there’s no need for you to stay here against your will. You could come home.”
Kestrel splattered oil onto Cheat’s feet and smeared it into the rough skin. “No. There’s nothing there I want.”
She felt his gaze on her bowed head, on her hands moving over his feet. “Do you do this for Arin?”
“No.”
“What do you do for him?”
Kestrel straightened. Her palms were greasy. She rubbed them into her skirts, not caring that disgust was at least one of the things Cheat wanted to see.
Why, why would he want that?
She turned to leave.
“We’re not done,” he said.
“We are,” said Kestrel, “unless you’d like to see how much my father taught me about unarmed combat. I’ll drown you in that fountain. If I can’t, I’ll scream loud enough to bring every Herrani in this house running, and make them wonder what kind of man their leader is, that a Valorian girl so easily snapped his self-control.”
She walked away, and he didn’t follow, though she felt his eyes on her until she turned a corner. She found the kitchens, the most populated place in the house, and stood by a fire, listening to the metal clatter of kettles. She ignored the strange looks.
Then she was shaking, as much with fury as anything else.
Tell Arin.
Kestrel waved that thought away. What good would telling Arin do?
Arin was a black box hidden below a smooth tile. A trap door opening beneath her. He wasn’t what she’d thought he was.
Maybe Arin had known that this would happen, or something like it.
Maybe he wouldn’t even mind. ~ Marie Rutkoski,
1235:CONTIMENT’S END At the equinox when the earth was veiled in a late rain, wreathed with wet poppies, waiting spring, The ocean swelled for a far storm and beat its boundary, the ground-swell shook the beds of granite. I gazing at the boundaries of granite and spray, the established sea-marks, felt behind me Mountain and plain, the immense breadth of the continent, before me the mass and doubled stretch of water. I said: You yoke the Aleutian seal-rocks with the lava and coral sowings that flower the south, Over your flood the life that sought the sunrise faces ours that has followed the evening star. The long migrations meet across you and it is nothing to you, you have forgotten us, mother. You were much younger when we crawled out of the womb and lay in the sun’s eye on the tideline. It was long and long ago; we have grown proud since then and you have grown bitter; life retains Your mobile soft unquiet strength; and envies hardness, the insolent quietness of stone. The tides are in our veins, we still mirror the stars, life is your child, but there is in me Older and harder than life and more impartial, the eye that watched before there was an ocean. That watched you fill your beds out of the condensation of thin vapor and watched you change them, That saw you soft and violent wear your boundaries down, eat rock, shift places with the continents. Mother, though my song’s measure is like your surf-beat’s ancient rhythm I never learned it of you. Before there was any water there were tides of fire, both our tones flow from the older fountain. ~ Robinson Jeffers,
1236:A BRIEF FOR THE DEFENSE Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafes and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come. ~ Jack Gilbert,
1237:Taylor followed her out into a small garden, fully enclosed by the surrounding buildings. A pebble path wound through small patches of grass. A few carved statues sat unobtrusively in the four corners, a stone bench sat next to a burbling fountain. They took a seat, Thalia with her back straight and the same beatific smile she’d had on for the past five minutes. “This is my favorite place. It’s easy to think here.” A calm had stolen over Taylor, similar to the feeling she’d had inside the church. “I can understand why. Can you teach art if you’re a nun?” “Of course. Especially in our fast-paced world, where people don’t take time to read. Art can play a huge role in communication, especially to the young. There are certainly centuries of religious works to study.” They sat in silence for a few moments, then Thalia spoke again, her voiced tinged with sadness. “Jasmine called me. She told me to answer your questions. I don’t know everything about the secret society, but I know some. I’ll help in any way that I can.” “I appreciate that. Jasmine told me that there is a club of girls who are making sex tapes to be posted on the Internet. What can you tell me about them?” Thalia contemplated her hands, which were nestled in her lap. “It’s not what they make it out to be, for starters. It’s supposed to be this glamorous, exciting club that everyone wants to be a part of, and only the most beautiful and popular are tapped. You know what being tapped is, right?” “Yes. You’re chosen by the group, have to go through some awful ritual, then you’re a pledge of sorts. ~ J T Ellison,
1238:ways in which our smartphones are changing us and undermining our spiritual health: Our phones amplify our addiction to distractions (chapter 1) and thereby splinter our perception of our place in time (12). Our phones push us to evade the limits of embodiment (2) and thereby cause us to treat one another harshly (11). Our phones feed our craving for immediate approval (3) and promise to hedge against our fear of missing out (10). Our phones undermine key literary skills (4) and, because of our lack of discipline, make it increasingly difficult for us to identify ultimate meaning (9). Our phones offer us a buffet of produced media (5) and tempt us to indulge in visual vices (8). Our phones overtake and distort our identity (6) and tempt us toward unhealthy isolation and loneliness (7). But it’s not just about warnings. Along the way, I have also attempted to commend twelve life disciplines we need to preserve our spiritual health in the smartphone age: We minimize unnecessary distractions in life to hear from God (chapter 1) and to find our place in God’s unfolding history (12). We embrace our flesh-and-blood embodiment (2) and handle one another with grace and gentleness (11). We aim at God’s ultimate approval (3) and find that, in Christ, we have no ultimate regrets to fear (10). We treasure the gift of literacy (4) and prioritize God’s Word (9). We listen to God’s voice in creation (5) and find a fountain of delight in the unseen Christ (8). We treasure Christ to be molded into his image (6) and seek to serve the legitimate needs of our neighbors (7). ~ Tony Reinke,
1239:Ballade Adresse A Geoffrey Chaucer
O Socratès plains de philosophie,
Seneque en meurs, Auglius en pratique,
Ovides grans en ta poëtrie,
Briés en parler, saiges en rethorique . . .
Grant translateur, noble Geoffrey Chaucier.
O Socrates, filled with philosophy,
Seneca in morals, Aulus Gellius in practice,
Great Ovid of your poetry,
Brief in speech, wise in rhetoric,
Most high eagle, who by your science
Enlumined the realm of Æneas.
The Isle of giants, of Brut, who has
Sown the flowers and planted the rose bower
For those ignorant of French,
Great translator, noble Geoffrey Chaucer.
You are the god of earthly love in Albion,
And of the Rose - in the Angelic land,
Which, from the Saxoness Angelica, has flourished
Into Angle-land, from her whose name is applied
As the last in this etymology You have translated in good English;
And a garden for which you ask for plants
From those who compose in order to be authorities,
You have long since created,
Great translator, noble Geoffrey Chaucer.
From you therefore, from the fountain of Helicon,
I have asked to have an authentic drink,
From the stream that is entirely in your power,
In order to quench my fevered thirst,
I who shall be shall be paralyzed in Gaul
Until you send to give me drink.
I am Eustaces; you shall have some of my plants;
Take in good grace these works of a schoolboy
Which you will recieve from me by Clifford,
Great translator, noble Geoffrey Chaucer.
L'envoy
~ Eustache Deschamps,
1240:HOW SHOULD THE SOUL

How should the soul not take wings
when from the Glory of God
It hears a sweet, kindly call:
"Why are you here, soul? Arise!"
How should a fish not leap fast
into the sea form dry land
When from the ocean so cool
the sound of the waves reaches its
How should the falcon not fly
back to his king from the hunt
When from the falconer's drum
it hears to call: "Oh, come back"?
Why should not every Sufi
begin to dance atom-like
Around the Sun of duration
that saves from impermanence?
What graciousness and what beauty?
What life-bestowing! What grace!
If anyone does without that, woe-
what err, what suffering!
Oh fly , of fly, O my soul-bird,
fly to your primordial home!
You have escaped from the cage now-
your wings are spread in the air.
Oh travel from brackish water
now to the fountain of life!
Return from the place of the sandals
now to the high seat of souls!
Go on! Go on! we are going,
and we are coming, O soul,
From this world of separation
to union, a world beyond worlds!
How long shall we here in the dust-world
like children fill our skirts
With earth and with stones without value,
with broken shards without worth?
Let's take our hand from the dust grove,
let's fly to the heavens' high,
Let's fly from our childish behaviour
and join the banquet of men!
Call out, O soul, to proclaim now
that you are rules and king!
You have the grace of the answer,
you know the question as well! ~ Rumi,
1241:Steppingstone
Home (from Court Square Fountain—
where affluent ghosts still importune
a taciturn
slave to entertain
them with a slow barbarous tune
in his auctioned baritone—
to Hank Williams' headstone
atop a skeleton
loose in a pristine
white suit and bearing a pristine
white bible, to the black bloodstain
on Martin King's torn
white shirt and Jim Clark's baton,
which smashed black skulls to gelatin)
was home, at fifteen: brimstone
on Sunday morning, badminton
hot afternoons, and brimstone
again that night. Often,
as the preacher flailed the lectern,
the free grace I couldn't sustain
past lunch led to clandestine
speculation. Skeleton
and flesh, bone and protein
hold—or is it detain?—
my soul. Was my hometown
Montgomery's molten
sunlight or the internal nocturne
of my unformed soul? Was I torn
from time or was time torn
from me? Turn
on byzantine
turn, I entertain
possibilities still, and overturn
most. It's routine
now to call a hometown
a steppingstone—
and a greased, uncertain,
aleatory stone
at that. Metaphors attune
our ears to steppingstone,
as well a corner-, grind-, and millstone—
all obtain
and all also cartoon
history, which like a piston,
struck hard and often
that blood-dappled town
scrubbed with the acetone
of American inattention. Atone
me no atoning. We know the tune
and as we sing it, we attain
a slow, wanton,
and puritan
grace, grace can't contain.
~ Andrew Hudgins,
1242:A Brief for the Defense

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come. ~ Jack Gilbert,
1243:His Sons, the fairest of her Daughters Eve. Under a tuft of shade that on a green Stood whispering soft, by a fresh Fountain side They sat them down, and after no more toil Of thir sweet Gardning labour then suffic’d To recommend coole Zephyr, and made ease More easie, wholsom thirst and appetite More grateful, to thir Supper Fruits they fell, Nectarine Fruits which the compliant boughes Yeilded them, side-long as they sat recline On the soft downie Bank damaskt with flours: The savourie pulp they chew, and in the rinde Still as they thirsted scoop the brimming stream; Nor gentle purpose, nor endearing smiles Wanted, nor youthful dalliance as beseems Fair couple, linkt in happie nuptial League, Alone as they. About them frisking playd All Beasts of th’ Earth, since wilde, and of all chase In Wood or Wilderness, Forrest or Den; Sporting the Lion rampd, and in his paw Dandl’d the Kid; Bears, Tygers, Ounces, Pards Gambold before them, th’ unwieldy Elephant To make them mirth us’d all his might, & wreathd His Lithe Proboscis; close the Serpent sly Insinuating, wove with Gordian twine His breaded train, and of his fatal guile Gave proof unheeded; others on the grass Coucht, and now fild with pasture gazing sat, Or Bedward ruminating: for the Sun Declin’d was hasting now with prone carreer To th’ Ocean Iles, and in th’ ascending Scale Of Heav’n the Starrs that usher Evening rose: When Satan still in gaze, as first he stood, Scarce thus at length faild speech recoverd sad. O Hell! what doe mine eyes with grief behold, Into our room of bliss thus high advanc’t Creatures of other mould, earth-born perhaps, Not ~ John Milton,
1244:I ask my readers to observe how deeply thankful we ought to be for the glorious gospel of the grace of God. There is a remedy revealed for mans need, as wide and broad and deep as mans disease. We need not be afraid to look at sin and study its nature, origin, power, extent and vileness, if we only look at the same time at the almighty medicine provided for us in the salvation that is in Jesus Christ. Though sin has abounded, grace has much more abounded. Yes: in the everlasting covenant of redemption, to which Father, Son and Holy Spirit are parties; in the Mediator of that covenant, Jesus Christ the righteous, perfect God and perfect Man in one Person; in the work that He did by dying for our sins and rising again for our justification; in the offices that He fills as our Priest, Substitute, Physician, Shepherd and Advocate; in the precious blood He shed which can cleanse from all sin; in the everlasting righteousness that He brought in; in the perpetual intercession that He carries on as our Representative at Gods right hand; in His power to save to the uttermost the chief of sinners, His willingness to receive and pardon the vilest, His readiness to bear with the weakest; in the grace of the Holy Spirit which He plants in the hearts of all His people, renewing, sanctifying and causing old things to pass away and all things to become newin all this (and oh, what a brief sketch it is!)in all this, I say, there is a full, perfect and complete medicine for the hideous disease of sin. No wonder that old Flavel ends many a chapter of his admirable Fountain of Life with the touching words: "Blessed be God for Jesus Christ. ~ Anonymous,
1245:HOW SHOULD THE SOUL not take wings
when from the Glory of God

It hears a sweet, kindly call:
"Why are you here, soul? Arise!"

How should a fish not leap fast
into the sea from dry land

When from the ocean so cool
the sound of the waves reaches its

How should the falcon not fly
back to his king from the hunt

When from the falconer's drum
it hears to call: "Oh, come back"?

Why should not every Sufi
begin to dance atom-like

Around the Sun of duration
that saves from impermanence?

What graciousness and what beauty?
What life-bestowing! What grace!

If anyone does without that, woe-
what err, what suffering!

Oh fly , of fly, O my soul-bird,
fly to your primordial home!

You have escaped from the cage now-
your wings are spread in the air.

Oh travel from brackish water
now to the fountain of life!

Return from the place of the sandals
now to the high seat of souls!

Go on! Go on! we are going,
and we are coming, O soul,

From this world of separation
to union, a world beyond worlds!

How long shall we here in the dust-world
like children fill our skirts

With earth and with stones without value,
with broken shards without worth?


Let's take our hand from the dust grove,
let's fly to the heavens' high,

Let's fly from our childish behaviour
and join the banquet of men!

Call out, O soul, to proclaim now
that you are rules and king!

You have the grace of the answer,
you know the question as well! ~ Rumi,
1246:After they buy their tickets, Emma pulls him to the concession line. "Galen, do you mind?" she says, drawing a distracting circle on his arm with her finger, sending fire pretty much everywhere inside him. He recognizes the mischief in her eyes but not the particular game she's playing.
"Get whatever you want, Emma," he tells her. With a coy smile, she orders seventy-five dollars worth of candy, soda, and popcorn. By the cashier's expression, seventy-five dollars must be a lot. If the game is to spend all his money, she'll be disappointed. He brought enough cash for five more armfuls of this junk. He helps Emma carry two large fountain drinks, two buckets of popcorn and four boxes of candy to the top row of the half-full theater.
When she's situated in her seat, she tears into a box and dumps the contents in her hand. "Look, sweet lips, I got your favorite, Lemonheads!" Sweet lips? What the- Before he can turn away, she forces three of them into his mouth.
His instant pucker elicits an evil snicker from her. She pops a straw into one of the cups and hands it to him. "Better drink this," she whispers. "To take the bite out of the candy."
He should have known better. The drink is so full of bubbles it turns clear up to his nostrils. Pride keeps him from coughing. Pride, and the Lemonhead lodged in his throat. Several more heaping gulps and he gets it down.
After a few minutes, a sample of greasy popcorn, and the rest of the soda, the lights finally dim, giving Galen a reprieve.
While Emma is engrossed in what she calls "stupid previews," Galen excuses himself to vomit in the bathroom. Emma wins this round. ~ Anna Banks,
1247:It Is The Sinners' Dust-Tongued Bell
It is the sinners' dust-tongued bell claps me to churches
When, with his torch and hourglass, like a sulpher priest,
His beast heel cleft in a sandal,
Time marks a black aisle kindle from the brand of ashes,
Grief with dishevelled hands tear out the altar ghost
And a firewind kill the candle.
Over the choir minute I hear the hour chant:
Time's coral saint and the salt grief drown a foul sepulchre
And a whirlpool drives the prayerwheel;
Moonfall and sailing emperor, pale as their tide-print,
Hear by death's accident the clocked and dashed-down spire
Strike the sea hour through bellmetal.
There is loud and dark directly under the dumb flame,
Storm, snow, and fountain in the weather of fireworks,
Cathedral calm in the pulled house;
Grief with drenched book and candle christens the cherub time
From the emerald, still bell; and from the pacing weather-cock
The voice of bird on coral prays.
Forever it is a white child in the dark-skinned summer
Out of the font of bone and plants at that stone tocsin
Scales the blue wall of spirits;
From blank and leaking winter sails the child in colour,
Shakes, in crabbed burial shawl, by sorcerer's insect woken,
Ding dong from the mute turrets.
I mean by time the cast and curfew rascal of our marriage,
At nightbreak born in the fat side, from an animal bed
In a holy room in a wave;
And all love's sinners in sweet cloth kneel to a hyleg image,
Nutmeg, civet, and sea-parsley serve the plagued groom and bride
Who have brought forth the urchin grief.
~ Dylan Thomas,
1248:Ma And Her Checkbook
Ma has a dandy little book that's full of narrow
slips,
An' when she wants to pay a bill a page from
it she rips;
She just writes in the dollars and the cents and
signs her name
An' that's as good as money, though it doesn't
look the same.
When she wants another bonnet or some
feathers for her neck,
She promptly goes an' gets 'em, an' she writes
another check.
I don't just understand it, but I know she
sputters when
Pa says to her at supper: 'Well! You're
overdrawn again!'
Ma's not a business woman, she is much too
kind of heart
To squabble over pennies or to play a selfish
part,
An' when someone asks for money, she's not
one to stop an' think
Of a little piece of paper an' the cost of pen
an' ink.
She just tells him very sweetly if he'll only
wait a bit
An' be seated in the parlor, she will write a
check for it.
She can write one out for twenty just as easily
as ten,
An' forgets that Pa may grumble: 'Well,
you're overdrawn again!'
Pa says it looks as though he'll have to start in
workin' nights
To gather in the money for the checks that
mother writes.
He says that every morning when he's summoned
447
to the phone,
He's afraid the bank is calling to make mother's
shortage known.
He tells his friends if ever anything our fortune
wrecks
They can trace it to the moment mother started
writing checks.
He's got so that he trembles when he sees her
fountain pen
An' he mutters: 'Do be careful! You'll be
overdrawn again!'
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
1249:Legends
CLOWNS DYINGFIVE circus clowns dying this year, morning newspapers told
their lives, how each one horizontal in a last gesture of hands arranged by an
undertaker, shook thousands into convulsions of laughter from behind rouge-red
lips and powder-white face.
STEAMBOAT BILLWhen the boilers of the Robert E. Lee exploded, a steamboat
winner of many races on the Mississippi went to the bottom of the river and
never again saw the wharves of Natchez and New Orleans.
And a legend lives on that two gamblers were blown toward the sky and during
their journey laid bets on which of the two would go higher and which would be
first to set foot on the turf of the earth again.
FOOT AND MOUTH PLAGUEWhen the mysterious foot and mouth epidemic
ravaged the cattle of Illinois, Mrs. Hector Smith wept bitterly over the
government killing forty of her soft-eyed Jersey cows; through the newspapers
she wept over her loss for millions of readers in the Great Northwest.
SEVENSThe lady who has had seven lawful husbands has written seven years for
a famous newspaper telling how to find love and keep it: seven thousand hungry
girls in the Mississippi Valley have read the instructions seven years and found
neither illicit loves nor lawful husbands.
PROFITEERI who saw ten strong young men die anonymously, I who saw ten old
mothers hand over their sons to the nation anonymously, I who saw ten
thousand touch the sunlit silver finalities of undistinguished human glory-why do
I sneeze sardonically at a bronze drinking fountain named after one who
participated in the war vicariously and bought ten farms?
~ Carl Sandburg,
1250:Grey-Eyed Mabel
I gazed on orbs of flashing black;
I met the glow of hazel light;
I marked the hue of laughing blue,
That sparkled in the festive night.
But none could fling a lasting spell
To hold me with unchanging power-The chains they cast were never fast
Beyond the gay and fleeting hour-Till Grey-eyed Mabel's gentle glance,
With blushing sense and beauty rife,
Bade my soul cry with burning sigh,
'I'm thine, and only thine, for life.'
Black, blue, and hazel stars have set,
But Mabel's grey eyes lead me yet.
What was it in sweet Mabel's eyes
That told me what no others told,
That roused the dull, that pleased the wise,
That charmed the young and cheered the old?
What was it held my world-worn breast
In holy thrall--unknown before?
What was it those grey eyes expressed
That made me worship and adore?
It was the pure and tender ray
That filled those eyes in joy or woe;
It was the beam that could not play
Without the fountain stream below;
It was the beam of simple truth,
Of Woman's faith and trusting Youth.
Those soft, grey eyes were watched by mine
With earnest, deep, and secret prayer;
I knew, I felt, my earthly shrine
Was found and fixed for ever--there.
I poured my heart one moonlit night
Into sweet Mabel's listening ear;
Our mutual vow, from then till now,
Bound each to each--fond, firm, and dear.
Our boys and girls are growing round,
And all give promise, brave and fair,
But one, young cherub form is found
First in my love, my hope, my care.
And why?--ah! why? My soul replies,
'She has dear Mabel's soft, grey eyes.'
~ Eliza Cook,
1251:Wallace Stevens On His Way To Work
He would leave early and walk slowly
     As if balancing books           
On the way to school, already expecting
To be tardy once again and heavy      
With numbers, the unfashionably rounded           
Toes of his shoes invisible beyond
The slope of his corporation. He would pause      
At his favorite fundamentally sound           
Park bench, which had been the birthplace
Of paeans and ruminations on other mornings,    
  And would turn his back to it, having gauged the distance  
 Between his knees and the edge of the hardwood
Almost invariably unoccupied     
 At this enlightened hour by the bums of nighttime          
 (For whom the owlish eye of the moon
Had been closed by daylight) , and would give himself wholly over      
Backwards and trustingly downwards          
 And be well seated there. He would remove
From his sinister jacket pocket a postcard     
 And touch it and retouch it with the point         
  Of the fountain he produced at his fingertips
And fill it with his never-before-uttered    
  Runes and obbligatos and pellucidly cryptic         
  Duets from private pageants, from broken ends
Of fandangos with the amoeba chaos chaos      
Couchant and rampant. Then he would rise        
   With an effort as heartfelt as a decision
To get out of bed on Sunday and carefully   
   Relocate his center of gravity      
     Above and beyond an imaginary axis
Between his feet and carry the good news
     Along the path and the sidewalk, well on his way  
         To readjusting the business of the earth.
~ David Wagoner,
1252:So much of the most important personal news I'd received in the last several years had come to me by smartphone while I was abroad in the city that I could plot on a map, could represent spatially the events, such as they were, of my early thirties. Place a thumbtack on the wall or drop a flag on Google Maps at Lincoln Center, where, beside the fountain, I took a call from Jon informing me that, for whatever complex of reasons, a friend had shot himself; mark the Noguchi Museum in Long Island City, where I read the message ("Apologies for the mass e-mail...") a close cousin sent out describing the dire condition of her newborn; waiting in line at the post office on Atlantic, the adhan issuing from the adjacent mosque, I received your wedding announcement and was shocked to be shocked, crushed, and started a frightening multi week descent, worse for being so embarrassingly cliched; while in the bathroom at the SoHo Crate and Barrel--the finest semipublic restroom in lower Manhattan--I learned I'd been awarded a grant that would take me overseas for a summer, and so came to associate the corner of Broadway and Houston with all that transpired in Morocco; at Zucotti Park I heard my then-girlfriend was not--as she'd been convinced--pregnant; while buying discounted dress socks at the Century 21 department store across from Ground Zero, I was informed by text that a friend in Oakland had been hospitalized after the police had broken his ribs. And so on: each of these experiences of reception remained, as it were, in situ, so that whenever I returned to a zone where significant news had been received, I discovered that the news and an echo of its attendant affect still awaited me like a curtain of beads. ~ Ben Lerner,
1253:Clear, With Light, Variable Winds
The fountain bent and straightened itself
In the night wind,
Blowing like a flower.
It gleamed and glittered,
A tall white lily,
Under the eye of the golden moon.
From a stone seat,
Beneath a blossoming lime,
The man watched it.
And the spray pattered
On the dim grass at his feet.
The fountain tossed its water,
Up and up, like silver marbles.
Is that an arm he sees?
And for one moment
Does he catch the moving curve
Of a thigh?
The fountain gurgled and splashed,
And the man's face was wet.
Is it singing that he hears?
A song of playing at ball?
The moonlight shines on the straight column of water,
And through it he sees a woman,
Tossing the water-balls.
Her breasts point outwards,
And the nipples are like buds of peonies.
Her flanks ripple as she plays,
And the water is not more undulating
Than the lines of her body.
'Come,' she sings, 'Poet!
Am I not more worth than your day ladies,
Covered with awkward stuffs,
Unreal, unbeautiful?
What do you fear in taking me?
Is not the night for poets?
I am your dream,
63
Recurrent as water,
Gemmed with the moon!'
She steps to the edge of the pool
And the water runs, rustling, down her sides.
She stretches out her arms,
And the fountain streams behind her
Like an opened veil.
*****
In the morning the gardeners came to their work.
'There is something in the fountain,' said one.
They shuddered as they laid their dead master
On the grass.
'I will close his eyes,' said the head gardener,
'It is uncanny to see a dead man staring at the sun.'
~ Amy Lowell,
1254:The Mower Against Gardens
Luxurious Man, to bring his Vice in use,
Did after him the World seduce:
And from the Fields the Flow'rs and Plants allure,
Where Nature was most plain and pure.
He first enclos'd within the Gardens square
A dead and standing pool of Air:
And a more luscious Earth for them did knead,
Which stupifi'd them while it fed.
The Pink grew then as double as his Mind;
The nutriment did change the kind.
With strange perfumes he did the Roses taint.
And Flow'rs themselves were taught to paint.
The Tulip, white, did for complexion seek;
And learn'd to interline its cheek:
Its Onion root they then so high did hold,
That one was for a Meadow sold.
Another World was search'd, through Oceans new,
To find the Marvel Of Peru.
And yet these Rarities might be allow'd,
To Man, that Sov'raign thing and proud;
Had he not dealt between the Bark and Tree,
Forbidden mixtures there to see.
No Plant now knew the Stock from which it came;
He grafts upon the Wild the Tame:
That the uncertain and adult'rate fruit
Might put the Palate in dispute.
His green Seraglio has its Eunuchs too;
Lest any Tyrant him out-doe.
And in the Cherry he does Nature vex,
To procreate without a Sex.
'Tis all enforc'd; the Fountain and the Grot;
While the sweet Fields do lye forgot:
Where willing Nature does to all dispence
A wild and fragrant Innocence:
And Fauns and Faryes do the Meadows till,
More by their presence then their skill.
Their Statues polish'd by some ancient hand,
May to adorn the Gardens stand:
But howso'ere the Figures do excel,
154
The Gods themselves with us do dwell.
~ Andrew Marvell,
1255:Ballade Of The Midnight Forest
Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright,
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold
The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee,
Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold
Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be,
The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy;
Then 'mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright,
The sudden Goddess enters, tall and white,
With one long sigh for summers pass'd away;
The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
She gleans her silvan trophies; down the wold
She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee
Mixed with the music of the hunting roll'd,
But her delight is all in archery,
And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she
More than her hounds that follow on the flight;
The goddess draws a golden bow of might
And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay.
She tosses loose her locks upon the night,
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
ENVOY.
Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite,
The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight:
Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray
There is the mystic home of our delight,
40
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
~ Andrew Lang,
1256:... What do you want, Ash?"
"Your head," Ash answered softly. "On a pike. But what I want doesn't matter this time." He pointed his sword at me. "I've come for her."
I gasped as my heart and stomach began careening around my chest. He's here for me, to kill me, like he promised at Elysium.
"Over my dead body." Puck smiled, as if this was a friendly conversation on the street, but I felt muscles coiling under his skin.
"This was part of the plan." The prince raised his sword, the icy blade wreathed in mist. "I will avenge her today, and put her memory to rest." For a moment, a shadow of anguish flitted across his face, and he closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were cold and glittered with malice. "Prepare yourself."
"Stay back, princess," Puck warned, pushing me out of the way. He reached into his boot and pullet out a dagger, the curved blade clear as glass. "This might get a little rough."
"Puck, no." I clutched at his sleeve. "Don't fight him. Someone could die."
"Duels to the death tend to end that way." Puck grinned, but it was a savage thing, grim and frightening. "But I'm touched that you care. One moment, princeling," he called to Ash, who inclined his head. Taking my wrist, Puck steered me behind the fountain and bent close, his breath warm on my face.
"I have to do this, princess," he said firmly. "Ash won't let us go without a fight, and this has been coming for a long time now." For a moment, a shadow of regret flickered across his face, but then it was gone.
"So," he murmured, grinning as he tilted my chin up, "before I march off to battle, how 'bout a kiss for luck?"
I hesitated, wondering why now, of all times, he would ask for a kiss. He certainly didn't think of me in that way... did he? ~ Julie Kagawa,
1257:49

Go thou to Rome,--at once the Paradise,
The grave, the city, and the wilderness;
And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise,
And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress
The bones of Desolation's nakedness
Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread;

50

And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned
This refuge for his memory, doth stand
Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath,
A field is spread, on which a newer band
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death,
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath.

51

Here pause: these graves are all too young as yet
To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned
Its charge to each; and if the seal is set,
Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind,
Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou find
Thine own well full, if thou returnest home,
Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb.
What Adonais is, why fear we to become?

52

The One remains, the many change and pass;
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly;
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of Eternity,
Until Death tramples it to fragments.--Die,
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!
Follow where all is fled!--Rome's azure sky,
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, From
,
1258:Dream-Love
Young Love lies sleeping
In May-time of the year,
Among the lilies,
Lapped in the tender light:
White lambs come grazing,
White doves come building there:
And round about him
The May-bushes are white.
Soft moss the pillow
For oh, a softer cheek;
Broad leaves cast shadow
Upon the heavy eyes:
There wind and waters
Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
There twilight lingers
The longest in the skies.
Young Love lies dreaming;
But who shall tell the dream?
A perfect sunlight
On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence,
Or song of cherished lips.
Burn odours round him
To fill the drowsy air;
Weave silent dances
Around him to and fro;
For oh, in waking
The sights are no so fair,
And song and silence
Are not like these below.
Young Love lies dreaming
Till summer days are gone, Dreaming and drowsing
91
Away to perfect sleep:
He sees the beauty
Sun hath not looked upon,
And tastes the fountain
Unutterably deep.
Him perfect music
Doth hush unto his rest,
And through the pauses
The perfect silence calms:
Oh, poor the voices
Of earth from east to west,
And poor earth's stillness
Between her stately palms.
Young Love lies drowsing
Away to poppied death;
Cool shadows deepen
Across the sleeping face:
So fails the summer
With warm delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
To give us in its place?
Draw close the curtains
Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
With fading fingers sere:
Here first the violets
Perhaps with bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
Return to nestle here.
~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,
1259:Dream-Love
Young Love lies sleeping
In May-time of the year,
Among the lilies,
Lapped in the tender light:
White lambs come grazing,
White doves come building there:
And round about him
The May-bushes are white.
Soft moss the pillow
For oh, a softer cheek;
Broad leaves cast shadow
Upon the heavy eyes:
There winds and waters
Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
There twilight lingers
The longest in the skies.
Young Love lies dreaming;
But who shall tell the dream?
A perfect sunlight
On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence,
Or song of cherished lips.
Burn odours round him
To fill the drowsy air;
Weave silent dances
Around him to and fro;
For oh, in waking
The sights are not so fair,
And song and silence
Are not like these below.
Young Love lies dreaming
Till summer days are gone,—
Dreaming and drowsing
144
Away to perfect sleep:
He sees the beauty
Sun hath not looked upon,
And tastes the fountain
Unutterably deep.
Him perfect music
Doth hush unto his rest,
And through the pauses
The perfect silence calms:
Oh, poor the voices
Of earth from east to west,
And poor earth's stillness
Between her stately palms.
Young Love lies drowsing
Away to poppied death;
Cool shadows deepen
Across the sleeping face:
So fails the summer
With warm, delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
To give us in its place?
Draw close the curtains
Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
With fading fingers sere:
Here the first violets
Perhaps will bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
Return to nestle here.
~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,
1260:April 9 MORNING “And there followed Him a great company of people, and of women, which also bewailed and lamented Him.” — Luke 23:27 AMID the rabble rout which hounded the Redeemer to His doom, there were some gracious souls whose bitter anguish sought vent in wailing and lamentations — fit music to accompany that march of woe. When my soul can, in imagination, see the Saviour bearing His cross to Calvary, she joins the godly women and weeps with them; for, indeed, there is true cause for grief — cause lying deeper than those mourning women thought. They bewailed innocence maltreated, goodness persecuted, love bleeding, meekness about to die; but my heart has a deeper and more bitter cause to mourn. My sins were the scourges which lacerated those blessed shoulders, and crowned with thorn those bleeding brows: my sins cried “Crucify Him! crucify Him!” and laid the cross upon His gracious shoulders. His being led forth to die is sorrow enough for one eternity: but my having been His murderer, is more, infinitely more, grief than one poor fountain of tears can express. Why those women loved and wept it were not hard to guess: but they could not have had greater reasons for love and grief than my heart has. Nain’s widow saw her son restored — but I myself have been raised to newness of life. Peter’s wife’s mother was cured of the fever — but I of the greater plague of sin. Out of Magdalene seven devils were cast — but a whole legion out of me. Mary and Martha were favoured with visits — but He dwells with me. His mother bare His body — but He is formed in me the hope of glory. In nothing behind the holy women in debt, let me not be behind them in gratitude or sorrow. “Love and grief my heart dividing, With my tears His feet I’ll lave — Constant still in heart abiding, Weep for Him who died to save. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1261: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,
1262:A Fit Of Rhyme Against Rhyme
Rhyme, the rack of finest wits,
That expresseth but by fits
True conceit,
Spoiling senses of their treasure,
Cozening judgment with a measure,
But false weight;
Wresting words from their true calling,
Propping verse for fear of falling
To the ground;
Jointing syllabes, drowning letters,
Fast'ning vowels as with fetters
They were bound!
Soon as lazy thou wert known,
All good poetry hence was flown,
And art banish'd.
For a thousand years together
All Parnassus' green did wither,
And wit vanish'd.
Pegasus did fly away,
At the wells no Muse did stay,
But bewail'd
So to see the fountain dry,
And Apollo's music die,
All light failed!
Starveling rhymes did fill the stage;
Not a poet in an age
Worth crowning;
Not a work deserving bays,
Not a line deserving praise,
Pallas frowning;
Greek was free from rhyme's infection,
Happy Greek by this protection
Was not spoiled.
Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues,
Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,
But rests foiled.
Scarce the hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish
To restore
Phœbus to his crown again,
And the Muses to their brain,
As before.
Vulgar languages that want
Words and sweetness, and be scant
Of true measure,
Tyrant rhyme hath so abused,
That they long since have refused
Other cæsure.
He that first invented thee,
May his joints tormented be,
Cramp'd forever.
Still may syllabes jar with time,
Still may reason war with rhyme,
Resting never.
May his sense when it would meet
The cold tumor in his feet,
Grow unsounder;
And his title be long fool,
That in rearing such a school
Was the founder.
~ Ben Jonson,
1263:It was blood which was of infinite merit and value in the sight of God. It was not the blood of one who was nothing more than a singularly holy man, but of one who was God’s own “Fellow”, very God of very God (Zechariah 13:7). It was not the blood of one who died involuntarily, as a martyr for truth, but of one who voluntarily undertook to be the Substitute and Proxy for mankind, to bear their sins and carry their iniquities. It made atonement for man’s transgressions; it paid man’s enormous debt to God; it provided a way of righteous reconciliation between sinful man and his holy Maker; it made a road from heaven to earth, by which God could come down to man, and show mercy; it made a road from earth to heaven, by which man could draw near to God, and yet not feel afraid. Without it there could have been no remission of sin. Through it God can be “just and yet the justifier” of the ungodly. From it a fountain has been formed, wherein sinners can wash and be clean to all eternity (Romans 3:26). This wondrous blood of Christ, applied to your conscience, can cleanse you from all sin. It matters nothing what your sins may have been, “Though they be as scarlet they may be made like snow. Though they be red like crimson they can be made like wool” (Isaiah 1:18). From sins of youth and sins of age, from sins of ignorance and sins of knowledge, from sins of open profligacy and sins of secret vice, from sins against law and sins against Gospel, from sins of head, and heart, and tongue, and thought, and imagination, from sins against each and all of the ten commandments, from all these the blood of Christ can set us free. To this end was it appointed; for this cause was it shed; for this purpose it is still a fountain open to all mankind. That thing which you cannot do for yourself can be done in a moment by this precious fountain ~ Anonymous,
1264:Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
Sets up a secret and unwavering scale
for all the shadows, dreams, and forms
Woven into the texture of this life.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure
And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
Who will tell us to whom in this house
We without knowing it have said farewell?

Through the dawning window night withdraws
And among the stacked books which throw
Irregular shadows on the dim table,
There must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate,
With its cement urns and planted cactus,
Which is already forbidden to my entry,
Inaccessible, as in a lithograph.

There is a door you have closed forever
And some mirror is expecting you in vain;
To you the crossroads seem wide open,
Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.

There is among all your memories one
Which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain
Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.

You will never recapture what the Persian
Said in his language woven with birds and roses,
When, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
You wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake,
All that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.

At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
Murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me. ~ Jorge Luis Borges,
1265:April 10 MORNING “The place which is called Calvary.” — Luke 23:33 THE hill of comfort is the hill of Calvary; the house of consolation is built with the wood of the cross; the temple of heavenly blessing is founded upon the riven rock — riven by the spear which pierced His side. No scene in sacred history ever gladdens the soul like Calvary’s tragedy. “Is it not strange, the darkest hour That ever dawned on sinful earth, Should touch the heart with softer power, For comfort, than an angel’s mirth? That to the Cross the mourner’s eye should turn, Sooner than where the stars of Bethlehem burn?” Light springs from the midday-midnight of Golgotha, and every herb of the field blooms sweetly beneath the shadow of the once accursed tree. In that place of thirst, grace hath dug a fountain which ever gusheth with waters pure as crystal, each drop capable of alleviating the woes of mankind. You who have had your seasons of conflict, will confess that it was not at Olivet that you ever found comfort, not on the hill of Sinai, nor on Tabor; but Gethsemane, Gabbatha, and Golgotha have been a means of comfort to you. The bitter herbs of Gethsemane have often taken away the bitters of your life; the scourge of Gabbatha has often scourged away your cares, and the groans of Calvary yields us comfort rare and rich. We never should have known Christ’s love in all its heights and depths if He had not died; nor could we guess the Father’s deep affection if He had not given His Son to die. The common mercies we enjoy all sing of love, just as the sea-shell, when we put it to our ears, whispers of the deep sea whence it came; but if we desire to hear the ocean itself, we must not look at every-day blessings, but at the transactions of the crucifixion. He who would know love, let him retire to Calvary and see the Man of sorrows die. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1266:A Dream Of Sunshine - Excerpt

I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways
Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase--
The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lie
And listen to the music of the brook that flutters by,
Or, by the pond out yonder, hear the redwing blackbird's call
Where he makes believe he has a nest, but hasn't one at all;
And by my side should be a friend--a trusty, genial friend,
With plenteous store of tales galore and natural leaf to lend;
Oh, how I pine and hanker for the gracious boon of spring--
For then I'm going a-fishing with John Lyle King!

How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we float
Upon the bosom of the tide in a three-by-thirteen boat--
Forgotten all vexations and all vanities shall be,
As we cast our cares to windward and our anchor to the lee;
Anon the minnow-bucket will emit batrachian sobs,
And the devil's darning-needles shall come wooing of our bobs;
The sun shall kiss our noses and the breezes toss our hair
(This latter metaphoric--we've no fimbriae to spare!);
And I--transported by the bliss--shan't do a plaguey thing
But cut the bait and string the fish for John Lyle King!

Or, if I angle, it will be for bullheads and the like,
While he shall fish for gamey bass, for pickerel, and for pike;
I really do not care a rap for all the fish that swim--
But it's worth the wealth of Indies just to be along with him
In grassy fields, in leafy woods, beside the water-brooks,
And hear him tell of things he's seen or read of in his books--
To hear the sweet philosophy that trickles in and out
The while he is discoursing of the things we talk about;
A fountain-head refreshing--a clear, perennial spring
Is the genial conversation of John Lyle King! ~ Eugene Field,
1267:A Dream Of Sunshine - Excerpt

I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways
Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase--
The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lie
And listen to the music of the brook that flutters by,
Or, by the pond out yonder, hear the redwing blackbird's call
Where he makes believe he has a nest, but hasn't one at all;
And by my side should be a friend--a trusty, genial friend,
With plenteous store of tales galore and natural leaf to lend;
Oh, how I pine and hanker for the gracious boon of spring--
For _then_ I'm going a-fishing with John Lyle King!

How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we float
Upon the bosom of the tide in a three-by-thirteen boat--
Forgotten all vexations and all vanities shall be,
As we cast our cares to windward and our anchor to the lee;
Anon the minnow-bucket will emit batrachian sobs,
And the devil's darning-needles shall come wooing of our bobs;
The sun shall kiss our noses and the breezes toss our hair
(This latter metaphoric--we've no fimbriae to spare!);
And I--transported by the bliss--shan't do a plaguey thing
But cut the bait and string the fish for John Lyle King!

Or, if I angle, it will be for bullheads and the like,
While he shall fish for gamey bass, for pickerel, and for pike;
I really do not care a rap for all the fish that swim--
But it's worth the wealth of Indies just to be along with him
In grassy fields, in leafy woods, beside the water-brooks,
And hear him tell of things he's seen or read of in his books--
To hear the sweet philosophy that trickles in and out
The while he is discoursing of the things we talk about;
A fountain-head refreshing--a clear, perennial spring
Is the genial conversation of John Lyle King! ~ Eugene Field,
1268:On The Death Of Mrs. Martineau, Senr.
Ye who around this venerated bier
In pious anguish pour the tender tear,
Mourn not!—'Tis Virtue's triumph, Nature's doom,
When honoured Age, slow bending to the tomb,
Earth's vain enjoyments past, her transient woes,
Tastes the long sabbath of well-earned repose.
No blossom here, in vernal beauty shed,
No lover lies, warm from the nuptial bed;
Here rests “the full of days,”—each task fulfilled,
Each wish accomplished, and each passion stilled.
You raised her languid head, caught her last breath,
And cheered with looks of love the couch of death.
Yet mourn!—for sweet the filial sorrows flow,
When fond affection prompts the gush of woe;
No bitter drop, 'midst nature's kind relief,
Sheds gall into the fountain of your grief;
No tears you shed for patient love abused,
And counsel scorned, and kind restraints refused;
Not yours the pang the conscious bosom wrings,
When late Remorse inflicts her fruitless stings.
Living you honoured her, you mourn for dead;
Her God you worship, and her path you tread:
Your sighs shall aid reflection's serious hour,
And cherished virtues bless the kindly shower:
On the loved theme your lips unblamed shall dwell;
Your lives, more eloquent, her worth shall tell.—
Long may that worth, fair Virtue's heritage,
From race to race descend, from age to age!
Still purer with transmitted lustre shine,
The treasured birthright of the spreading line!
—For me, as o'er the frequent grave I bend,
And pensive down the vale of years descend;—
Companions, parents, kindred called to mourn,
Dropt from my side, or from my bosom torn;
A boding voice, methinks, in Fancy's ear
Speaks from the tomb, and cries “Thy friends are here!”
97
~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,
1269:As Mrs. Armiger drew near, the fountain clerk put my sundae in front of me. “Here you are,” he said. “I made this one especially for you, Andrew. Plenty of chocolate sauce and whipped cream--just the way you like it.”
Glad Andrew and I had at least one thing in common, I scooped up a big spoonful of ice cream. My mouth was watering for chocolate, but before I had a chance to taste it, Mrs. Armiger pounced on me. “How wonderful to see you up and about, dear boy. I was just plain worried to death when I heard you’d come down with diphtheria.”
Her perfume hung around me in a cloud so dense I could hardly breathe. “Yes, ma’am,” I stammered, trying hard not to cough. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Laying a plump hand on my shoulder, Mrs. Armiger smiled. “Why, Andrew, I believe a touch of the dark angel’s wings has improved your manners.”
Theo gave me one of the sharp little kicks he specialized in. Blowing through his straw, he made loud bubbling sounds in his drink.
He expected me to do something outrageous too. They all did--the whole family was watching, waiting for me to mortify them. I could almost hear Mama holding her breath. I knew Andrew would never have sat as still as a stone, ears burning with embarrassment, but, unlike him, I couldn’t think what to do or say.
“That’s a very rude noise, Theodore,” Mrs. Armiger said.
Mama snatched Theo’s glass. “If you want to finish your phosphate, apologize to Mrs. Armiger.”
Without looking at anyone, Theo mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
Mama wasn’t satisfied. “Sorry for what, Theodore Aloysius?”
Theo kept his head down. Trying not to giggle, he said, “I’m sorry for making a rude noise, Mrs. Armiger.”
Mama gave him his phosphate. “That’s better.”
Theo kicked me again, harder this time. From the way he was scowling, I guessed he was mad that he’d gotten into trouble and I hadn’t. ~ Mary Downing Hahn,
1270:Dawn In The Mountains
It is the morning star, arising slow
Out of yon hill’s dark bulk, as she were born
Of its desire for day; then glides she forth
And into the dim sky, there leaving still
A whiteness in her wake that whitens more
As she ascends, till all the gloomy woods
Are touched along their multiformous lines
By a faint gleaming azure, creeping on:
A few thin stripes of fleecy clouds lie long
And motionless above the eastern steeps,
Like threads of silver lace; till suddenly,
Out from the flushing centre to the ends
On either hand, their lustrous layers become
Dipt all in crimson streaked with pink and gold;
And then at last are edged as with a band
Of crystal all on fire. Meanwhile the stars,
Those golden children of eternity,
Have all withdrawn within the Invisible;
That skiey gleam and azure prevalence
Which first bespoke the dawn works out and down
Ev’n to the grassy ground; till all the trees,
Clearly defined to their minutest sprays,
Stand in unspeakable beauty. Long before
The sun himself is seen, off towards the west
A range of mighty summits more and more
Blaze each like a huge cresset in the keen
Clear atmosphere. As if the spirit of light
Advancing swiftly thence, and eastward still,
Kept kindling them in quick succession, till
The universal company of cones
And peaks pyramidal stand burning all
With rosy fires like a wide-ranging circ
Of mighty altars, where the spirit of man
Can feel the presence of that greater soul
Which makes all nature, and of which itself
Is but an effluence, however far
Projected, or detached by tract of time;
Even as a sunbeam’s fountain in the sun,
Whether it hit the earth or glance away
50
Into infinitude—shooting on for ever.
~ Charles Harpur,
1271:Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
Sets up a secret and unwavering scale
for all the shadows, dreams, and forms
Woven into the texture of this life.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure
And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
Who will tell us to whom in this house
We without knowing it have said farewell?

Through the dawning window night withdraws
And among the stacked books which throw
Irregular shadows on the dim table,
There must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate,
With its cement urns and planted cactus,
Which is already forbidden to my entry,
Inaccessible, as in a lithograph.

There is a door you have closed forever
And some mirror is expecting you in vain;
To you the crossroads seem wide open,
Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.

There is among all your memories one
Which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain
Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.

You will never recapture what the Persian
Said in his language woven with birds and roses,
When, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
You wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake,
All that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.

At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
Murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me.

~ Jorge Luis Borges, Limits
,
1272:Good-bye," he muttered harshly. "Good-bye! Good-bye, mamma!" A wild, strange cry, like that of a beast in pain, was torn from his throat. His eyes were blind with tears; he tried to speak, to get into a word, a phrase, all the pain, the beauty, and the wonder of their lives—every step of that terrible voyage which his incredible memory and intuition took back to the dwelling of her womb. But no word came, no word could come; he kept crying hoarsely again and again, "Good-bye, good-bye." She understood, she knew all he felt and wanted to say, her small weak eyes were wet as his with tears, her face was twisted in the painful grimace of sorrow, and she kept saying:
"Poor child! Poor child! Poor child!" Then she whispered huskily, faintly: "We must try to love one another." The terrible and beautiful sentence, the last, the final wisdom that the earth can give, is remembered at the end, is spoken too late, wearily. It stands there, awful and untraduced, above the dusty racket of our lives. No forgetting, no forgiving, no denying, no explaining, no hating. O mortal and perishing love, born with this flesh and dying with this brain, your memory will haunt the earth forever. And now the voyage out. Where? XL The Square lay under blazing moonlight. The fountain pulsed with a steady breezeless jet: the water fell upon the pool with a punctual slap. No one came into the Square.
The chimes of the bank's clock struck the quarter after three as Eugene entered from the northern edge, by Academy Street.
He came slowly over past the fire department and the City Hall. On Gant's corner, the Square dipped sharply down toward Niggertown, as if it had been bent at the edge.
Eugene saw his father's name, faded, on the old brick in moonlight. On the stone porch of the shop, the angels held their marble posture. They seemed to have frozen, in the moonlight. ~ Thomas Wolfe,
1273:A Dedication
They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less
Of sound than of words,
In lands where bright blossoms are scentless,
And songless bright birds;
Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses,
Insatiable Summer oppresses
Sere woodlands and sad wildernesses,
And faint flocks and herds.
Where in drieariest days, when all dews end,
And all winds are warm,
Wild Winter's large floodgates are loosen'd,
And floods, freed by storm;
From broken-up fountain heads, dash on
Dry deserts with long pent up passion-Here rhyme was first framed without fashion,
Song shaped without form.
Whence gather'd?--The locust's glad chirrup
May furnish a stave;
The ring os rowel and stirrup,
The wash of a wave.
The chauntof a marsh frog in rushes
That chimes through the pauses and hushes
Of nightfall, the torrent that gushes,
The tempests that rave.
In the deep'ning of dawn, when it dapples
The dusk of the sky,
With streaks like the redd'ning of apples,
The ripening of rye.
To eastward, when cluster by cluster,
Dim stars and dull planets, that muster,
Wax wan in a world of white lustre
That spreads far and high.
In the gathering of night gloom o'er head, in
The still silent change,
All fire-flush'd when forest trees redden
On slopes of the range.
When the gnarl'd knotted trunks Eucalyptian
Seemed carved like weird columns Egyptian
With curious device--quaint inscription,
And heiroglyph strange.
In the Spring, when the wattle gold trembles
'Twixt shadow and shine,
When each dew-laden air draught resembles
A long draught of wine;
When the skyline's blue burnished resistance
Makes deeper the dreamiest distance,
Some song in all hearts hath existence,-Such songs have been mine.
~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,
1274:Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.” — 1 Corinthians 10:12 IT is a curious fact, that there is such a thing as being proud of grace. A man says, “I have great faith, I shall not fall; poor little faith may, but I never shall.” “I have fervent love,” says another, “I can stand, there is no danger of my going astray.” He who boasts of grace has little grace to boast of. Some who do this imagine that their graces can keep them, knowing not that the stream must flow constantly from the fountain head, or else the brook will soon be dry. If a continuous stream of oil comes not to the lamp, though it burn brightly to-day, it will smoke to-morrow, and noxious will be its scent. Take heed that thou gloriest not in thy graces, but let all thy glorying and confidence be in Christ and His strength, for only so canst thou be kept from falling. Be much more in prayer. Spend longer time in holy adoration. Read the Scriptures more earnestly and constantly. Watch your lives more carefully. Live nearer to God. Take the best examples for your pattern. Let your conversation be redolent of heaven. Let your hearts be perfumed with affection for men’s souls. So live that men may take knowledge of you that you have been with Jesus, and have learned of Him; and when that happy day shall come, when He whom you love shall say, “Come up higher,” may it be your happiness to hear Him say, “Thou hast fought a good fight, thou hast finished thy course, and henceforth there is laid up for thee a crown of righteousness which fadeth not away.” On, Christian, with care and caution! On, with holy fear and trembling! On, with faith and confidence in Jesus alone, and let your constant petition be, “Uphold me according to Thy word.” He is able, and He alone, “To keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of His glory with exceeding joy. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1275:Our mathematics is a combination of invention and discoveries. The axioms of Euclidean geometry as a concept were an invention, just as the rules of chess were an invention. The axioms were also supplemented by a variety of invented concepts, such as triangles, parallelograms, ellipses, the golden ratio, and so on. The theorems of Euclidean geometry, on the other hand, were by and large discoveries; they were the paths linking the different concepts. In some cases, the proofs generated the theorems-mathematicians examined what they could prove and from that they deduced the theorems. In others, as described by Archimedes in The Method, they first found the answer to a particular question they were interested in, and then they worked out the proof.

Typically, the concepts were inventions. Prime numbers as a concept were an invention, but all the theorems about prime numbers were discoveries. The mathematicians of ancient Babylon, Egypt, and China never invented the concept of prime numbers, in spite of their advanced mathematics. Could we say instead that they just did not "discover" prime numbers? Not any more than we could say that the United Kingdom did not "discover" a single, codified, documentary constitution. Just as a country can survive without a constitution, elaborate mathematics could develop without the concept of prime numbers. And it did!

Do we know why the Greeks invented such concepts as the axioms and prime numbers? We cannot be sure, but we could guess that this was part of their relentless efforts to investigate the most fundamental constituents of the universe. Prime numbers were the basic building blocks of matter. Similarly, the axioms were the fountain from which all geometrical truths were supposed to flow. The dodecahedron represented the entire cosmos and the golden ratio was the concept that brought that symbol into existence. ~ Mario Livio,
1276:Composers do not remember this lost fatherland, but each of them remains all his life unconsciously attuned to it; he is delirious with joy when he sings in harmony with his native land, betrays it at times with his thirst for fame, but then, in seeking fame, turns his back on it, and it is only by scorning fame that he finds it when he breaks out into that distinctive strain the sameness of which—for whatever its subject it remains identical with itself—proves the permanence of the elements that compose his soul. But in that case is it not true that those elements—all the residuum of reality which we are obliged to keep to ourselves, which cannot be transmitted in talk, even from friend to friend, from master to disciple, from lover to mistress, that ineffable something which differentiates qualitatively what each of us has felt and what he is obliged to leave behind at the threshold of the phrases in which he can communicate with others only by limiting himself to externals, common to all and of no interest—are brought out by art, the art of a Vinteuil like that of an Elstir, which exteriorises in the colours of the spectrum the intimate composition of those worlds which we call individuals and which, but for art, we should never know? A pair of wings, a different respiratory system, which enabled us to travel through space, would in no way help us, for if we visited Mars or Venus while keeping the same senses, they would clothe everything we could see in the same aspect as the things of Earth. The only true voyage, the only bath in the Fountain of Youth, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to see the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to see the hundred universes that each of them sees, that each of them is; and this we can do with an Elstir, with a Vinteuil; with men like these we do really fly from star to star. ~ Marcel Proust,
1277:Can Vei La Lauzeta
When I see the lark joyfully moving its wings against the sun's rays, and falling
because of the sweetness that enters its heart, ah! a great envy comes upon me
of all those who I see happy. I am astonished that my heart does not melt with
desire.
Alas! I thought I knew so much about love, and I know so little, because I cannot
stop loving the one from whom I will never obtain anything. She has taken my
heart, myself, herself, and the whole world, and has left me with nothing but
yearning and a languishing heart.
I no longer have power over myself, and am no longer my own person, from the
moment when she lets me look into her eyes, that mirror that pleases me so.
Mirror, since I am mirrored in you, my sighs have caused my death, for I am lost
just as Narcissus lost himself in the fountain.
I despair of women; never more shall I trust them. As once I exalted them, now
shall I cast them down. Since I see that not one of them is for me against she
who destroys and confounds me, I doubt and mistrust them all, since I well know
they are all the same.
And in this I see that my lady is very much a woman, and that is why I criticize
her. For she does not want that which she should want, and that which she is
forbidden, she does. I am fallen very low, and I have acted like the fool on the
bridge. And I don't know why this has happened to me, unless it's because I tried
to mount too high.
Since nothing works any more with my lady - neither prayers nor pity nor my
rights concerning her; and since it no longer pleases her that I love her, I will
never more say it to her. And so I take my leave and go away from her. She has
killed me, and I respond to her with death. And I leave, since she doesn't retain
me, I the unhappy one, into exile, I know not where
~ Bernard de Ventadorn,
1278:I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this. ~ Charles Bukowski,
1279:Echoes From The Sabine Farm
TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA
O FOUNTAIN of Bandusia!
Whence crystal waters flow,
With garlands gay and wine I ’ll pay
The sacrifice I owe;
A sportive kid with budding horns
I have, whose crimson blood
Anon shall dye and sanctify
Thy cool and babbling flood.
O fountain of Bandusia!
The Dog-star’s hateful spell
No evil brings into the springs
That from thy bosom well;
Here oxen, wearied by the plow,
The roving cattle here
Hasten in quest of certain rest,
And quaff thy gracious cheer.
O fountain of Bandusia!
Ennobled shalt thou be,
For I shall sing the joys that spring
Beneath yon ilex-tree.
Yes, fountain of Bandusia,
Posterity shall know
The cooling brooks that from thy nooks
Singing and dancing go.
TO LEUCONÖE
WHAT end the gods may have ordained for me,
And what for thee,
Seek not to learn, Leuconöe,—we may not know.
Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest.
’T is for the best
To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe.
122
If for more winters our poor lot is cast,
Or this the last,
Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas,
Strain clear the wine; this life is short, at best.
Take hope with zest,
And, trusting not To-morrow, snatch To-day for ease!
TO LEUCONÖE
II
SEEK not, Leuconöe, to know how long you ’re going to live yet,
What boons the gods will yet withhold, or what they ’re going to give yet;
For Jupiter will have his way, despite how much we worry:—
Some will hang on for many a day, and some die in a hurry.
The wisest thing for you to do is to embark this diem
Upon a merry escapade with some such bard as I am.
And while we sport I ’ll reel you off such odes as shall surprise ye;
To-morrow, when the headache comes,—well, then I ’ll satirize ye!
~ Eugene Field,
1280:February 21 MORNING “He hath said.” — Hebrews 13:5 IF we can only grasp these words by faith, we have an all-conquering weapon in our hand. What doubt will not be slain by this twoedged sword? What fear is there which shall not fall smitten with a deadly wound before this arrow from the bow of God’s covenant? Will not the distresses of life and the pangs of death; will not the corruptions within, and the snares without; will not the trials from above, and the temptations from beneath, all seem but light afflictions, when we can hide ourselves beneath the bulwark of “He hath said”? Yes; whether for delight in our quietude, or for strength in our conflict, “He hath said” must be our daily resort. And this may teach us the extreme value of searching the Scriptures. There may be a promise in the Word which would exactly fit your case, but you may not know of it, and therefore you miss its comfort. You are like prisoners in a dungeon, and there may be one key in the bunch which would unlock the door, and you might be free; but if you will not look for it, you may remain a prisoner still, though liberty is so near at hand. There may be a potent medicine in the great pharmacopoeia of Scripture, and you may yet continue sick unless you will examine and search the Scriptures to discover what “He hath said.” Should you not, besides reading the Bible, store your memories richly with the promises of God? You can recollect the sayings of great men; you treasure up the verses of renowned poets; ought you not to be profound in your knowledge of the words of God, so that you may be able to quote them readily when you would solve a difficulty, or overthrow a doubt? Since “He hath said” is the source of all wisdom, and the fountain of all comfort, let it dwell in you richly, as “A well of water, springing up unto everlasting life.” So shall you grow healthy, strong, and happy in the divine life. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1281:Until that morning most of the journey had been made in silence, our stops to eat and change horses--again, Renselaeus beneficence: all we had to do was mention their name, and the horses were instantly available--too brief for much converse. When we did stop, we were both too tired to talk. But that day the roads were too muddy for fast travel, and Branaric suddenly turned to me and asked for my story, so I gave him a detailed description of my adventures.
I had just reached the episode at the fountain with Debegri, and was grinning at the fluency and point of Bran’s curses, when we became aware of horses behind us.
Traffic had been nonexistent all day, which we had expected. No traders had been permitted to go up into Tlanth, well away from Vesingrui, the fortress that the Renselaeus forces supposedly held, so we didn’t expect any military traffic, either.
“Sounds like at least one riding,” I said, remembering that pattern well. Danger prickled along my nerves, and I wished I had a weapon.
“Something must have happened.” Bran sounded unconcerned. “They must need to tell us--“
“Who? What?”
Bran shrugged. “Escort. Shevraeth sent it along to keep us safe. Knew you would refuse, so they’ve been behind us the whole way.”
I was peering through the trees, anger and apprehension warring inside me. Annoyed as I was to be thus circumvented--and to have my reactions so accurately predicted--I realized I’d be well satisfied to find out that the approaching riders were indeed Renselaeus equerries.
The Renselaeus colors would have stood out, but the green-and-brown of Galdran’s people blended into the forest; they were almost on us before we saw them, and Bran yelled, “It’s a trap!”
“Halt!” The shout rang through the trees.
Of course we bolted.
“Halt, or we shoot,” came a second yell.
“Bend down, bend--ah!”
Bran’s body jerked, then he fell forward, an arrow in his back. ~ Sherwood Smith,
1282:I.
Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons of the wind,
The lion to rouse from his skull-covered lair?
When the tiger approaches can the fast-fleeting hind
Repose trust in his footsteps of air?
No! Abandoned he sinks in a trance of despair,
The monster transfixes his prey,
On the sand flows his life-blood away;
Whilst India's rocks to his death-yells reply,
Protracting the horrible harmony.

II.
Yet the fowl of the desert, when danger encroaches,
Dares fearless to perish defending her brood,
Though the fiercest of cloud-piercing tyrants approaches
Thirsting--ay, thirsting for blood;
And demands, like mankind, his brother for food;
Yet more lenient, more gentle than they;
For hunger, not glory, the prey
Must perish. Revenge does not howl in the dead.
Nor ambition with fame crown the murderers head.

III.
Though weak as the lama that bounds on the mountains,
And endued not with fast-fleeting footsteps of air,
Yet, yet will I draw from the purest of fountains,
Though a fiercer than tiger is there.
Though, more dreadful than death, it scatters despair,
Though its shadow eclipses the day,
And the darkness of deepest dismay
Spreads the influence of soul-chilling terror around,
And lowers on the corpses, that rot on the ground.

IV.
They came to the fountain to draw from its stream
Waves too pure, too celestial, for mortals to see;
They bathed for awhile in its silvery beam,
Then perished, and perished like me.
For in vain from the grasp of the Bigot I flee;
The most tenderly loved of my soul
Are slaves to his hated control.
He pursues me, he blasts me! 'Tis in vain that I fly:--
What remains, but to curse him,--to curse him and die?
Published (without title) by Hogg, 'Life of Shelley', 1858; dated 1809-10. The title is Rossetti's (1870).


~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Bigotrys Victim
,
1283:1. TO YOU HE WHO SPOKE and wrote this message will be greatly disappointed if it does not lead many to the Lord Jesus. It is sent forth in childlike dependence upon the power of God the Holy Ghost, to use it in the conversion of millions, if so He pleases. No doubt many poor men and women will take up this little volume, and the Lord will visit them with grace. To answer this end, the very plainest language has been chosen, and many homely expressions have been used. But if those of wealth and rank should glance at this book, the Holy Ghost can impress them also; since that which can be understood by the unlettered is none the less attractive to the instructed. Oh that some might read it who will become great winners of souls! Who knows how many will find their way to peace by what they read here? A more important question to you, dear reader, is this- Will you be one of them? A certain man placed a fountain by the wayside, and he hung up a cup near to it by a little chain. He was told some time after that a great art-critic had found much fault with its design. "But," said he, "do many thirsty persons drink at it?" Then they told him that thousands of poor people, men, women, and children, slaked their thirst at this fountain; and he smiled and said, that he was little troubled by the critic's observation, only he hoped that on some sultry summer's day the critic himself might fill the cup, and he refreshed, and praise the name of the Lord. Here is my fountain, and here is my cup: find fault if you please; but do drink of the water of life. I only care for this. I had rather bless the soul of the poorest crossing-sweeper, or rag-gatherer, than please a prince of the blood, and fail to convert him to God. Reader, do you mean business in reading these pages? If so, we are agreed at the outset; but nothing short of your finding Christ and Heaven is the business aimed at here. Oh that we may seek this together! ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1284:The House Of Dust: Part 02: 05: Retrospect
Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops,
Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass.
A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing,
Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant,
And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass.
And one old man looks down from a dusty window
And sees the pigeons circling about the fountain
And desires once more to walk among those trees.
Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain.
Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water.
And soon the pond must freeze.
The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter,
Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight;
A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell.
But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears
More in his secret heart than in his ears,—
A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell.
He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane,
The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,—
Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . .
And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale.
Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream;
It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas;
It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls.
Where was the woman he loved? Where was his youth?
Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire?
Even a dream grows grey at last and falls.
He opened his book once more, beside the window,
And read the printed words upon that page.
The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly,
The quiet words enchanted time and age.
'Death is never an ending, death is a change;
Death is beautiful, for death is strange;
Death is one dream out of another flowing;
229
Death is a chorded music, softly going
By sweet transition from key to richer key.
Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.'
~ Conrad Potter Aiken,
1285:A real panic took hold of me. I didn't know where I was going. I ran along the docks, turned into the deserted streets in the Beauvoisis district; the houses watched my flight with their mournful eyes. I repeated with anguish: Where shall I go? where shall I go? Anything can happen. Sometimes, my heart pounding, I made a sudden right about turn: what was happening behind my back? Maybe it would start behind me and when I would turn around, suddenly, it would be too late. As long as I could stare at things nothing would happen: I looked at them as much as I could, pavements, houses, gaslights; my eyes went rapidly from one to the other, to catch them unawares, stop them in the midst of their metamorphosis. They didn't look too natural, but I told myself forcibly: this is a gaslight, this is a drinking fountain, and I tried to reduce them to their everyday aspect by the power of my gaze. Several times I came across barriers in my path: the Cafe des Bretons, the Bar de la Marine. I stopped, hesitated in front of their pink net curtains: perhaps these snug places had been spared, perhaps they still held a bit of yesterday's world, isolated, forgotten. But I would have to push the door open and enter. I didn't dare; I went on. Doors of houses frightened me especially. I was afraid they would open of themselves. I ended by walking in the middle of the street.
I suddenly came out on the Quai des Bassins du Nord. Fishing smacks and small yachts. I put my foot on a ring set in the stone. Here, far from houses, far from doors, I would have a moment of respite. A cork was floating on the calm, black speckled water.
"And under the water? You haven't thought what could be under the water."
A monster? A giant carapace? sunk in the mud? A dozen pairs of claws or fins labouring slowly in the slime. The monster rises. At the bottom of the water. I went nearer, watching every eddy and undulation. The cork stayed immobile among the black spots. ~ Jean Paul Sartre,
1286:April 17 MORNING “We are come to the blood of sprinkling, that speaketh better things than that of Abel.” — Hebrews 12:24 READER, have you come to the blood of sprinkling? The question is not whether you have come to a knowledge of doctrine, or an observance of ceremonies, or to a certain form of experience, but have you come to the blood of Jesus? The blood of Jesus is the life of all vital godliness. If you have truly come to Jesus, we know how you came — the Holy Spirit sweetly brought you there. You came to the blood of sprinkling with no merits of your own. Guilty, lost, and helpless, you came to take that blood, and that blood alone, as your everlasting hope. You came to the cross of Christ, with a trembling and an aching heart; and oh! what a precious sound it was to you to hear the voice of the blood of Jesus! The dropping of His blood is as the music of heaven to the penitent sons of earth. We are full of sin, but the Saviour bids us lift our eyes to Him, and as we gaze upon His streaming wounds, each drop of blood, as it falls, cries, “It is finished; I have made an end of sin; I have brought in everlasting righteousness.” Oh! sweet language of the precious blood of Jesus! If you have come to that blood once, you will come to it constantly. Your life will be “Looking unto Jesus.” Your whole conduct will be epitomized in this — “To whom coming.” Not to whom I have come, but to whom I am always coming. If thou hast ever come to the blood of sprinkling, thou wilt feel thy need of coming to it every day. He who does not desire to wash in it every day, has never washed in it at all. The believer ever feels it to be his joy and privilege that there is still a fountain opened. Past experiences are doubtful food for Christians; a present coming to Christ alone can give us joy and comfort. This morning let us sprinkle our door-post fresh with blood, and then feast upon the Lamb, assured that the destroying angel must pass us by. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1287:Grace is the first and last moving cause of salvation; and faith, essential as it is, is only an important part of the machinery which grace employs. We are saved "through faith," but salvation is "by grace." Sound forth those words as with the archangel's trumpet: "By grace are ye saved." What glad tidings for the undeserving! Faith occupies the position of a channel or conduit pipe. Grace is the fountain and the stream; faith is the aqueduct along which the flood of mercy flows down to refresh the thirsty sons of men. It is a great pity when the aqueduct is broken. It is a sad sight to see around Rome the many noble aqueducts which no longer convey water into the city, because the arches are broken and the marvelous structures are in ruins. The aqueduct must be kept entire to convey the current; and, even so, faith must be true and sound, leading right up to God and coming right down to ourselves, that it may become a serviceable channel of mercy to our souls. Still, I again remind you that faith is only the channel or aqueduct, and not the fountainhead, and we must not look so much to it as to exalt it above the divine source of all blessing which lies in the grace of God. Never make a Christ out of your faith, nor think of as if it were the independent source of your salvation. Our life is found in "looking unto Jesus," not in looking to our own faith. By faith all things become possible to us; yet the power is not in the faith, but in the God upon whom faith relies. Grace is the powerful engine, and faith is the chain by which the carriage of the soul is attached to the great motive power. The righteousness of faith is not the moral excellence of faith, but the righteousness of Jesus Christ which faith grasps and appropriates. The peace within the soul is not derived from the contemplation of our own faith; but it comes to us from Him who is our peace, the hem of whose garment faith touches, and virtue comes out of Him into the soul. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1288:BRIDE SONG

Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.

Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.

Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair,
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?

We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
That used to be so brown.

We never heard her speak in haste;
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.

You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep today
That she is dead?
Lo we who love weep not today,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread. ~ Christina Rossetti,
1289:A Lament
Flowers in their freshness are flushing the earth,
And the voice-peopled forest is loud in its mirth,
And streams in their fulness are laughing at dearth—
Yet my bosom is aching.
There’s shadow on all things—the shadow of woe—
It falls from my spirit wherever I go,
As from a dark cloud drifting heavy and slow,
For my spirit is weary.
Ah! what can be flowers in their gladness to me,
Or the voices that people the green forest tree,
Or the full joy of streams—since my soul sighs, ah me!
O’er the grave of my Mary.
Under the glad face of nature, her face
Hath carried down with it all beauty and grace;
Pale is it there in that dark silent place—
Mary! oh Mary!
Children are by me—her children; oh God!
To see where their feet have unwittingly trod,
Tiny tracks in the loam of the new broken sod
Betwixt them and their mother!
Betwixt them and the true one who loved us in truth,
Who bore them, and died ’mid the hopes of her youth!
Who would live in a world where nor anguish nor ruth
May avail the bereaved ones.
Yet must I live, lest her spirit should say,
Meeting mine in its flight from this vesture of clay,
“Where are our little ones? Where do they stay?
And why did you leave them?”
If for them only, then, so must it be,
See, I remain with them, Mary! but see
How lonely we stand in a world without thee!
Mary! oh Mary!
16
I live, but death’s shadow is over me cast;
And even when wearied woe sleepeth at last,
Some dream of the dead, sighing out of the past,
Is alive in the darkness!
Could I but weep, it were comfort, though brief;
But the fountain of tears by the fire of my grief
Hath been dried to its dregs, and can shed no relief
On the thirst of my eyelids.
As music that wasteth away on the blast,
As the last ray by the sunken sun cast,
All my heart’s gladness hath died in the past,—
Mary! oh Mary!
~ Charles Harpur,
1290:The Prince's Progress (Excerpt)
"Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate.
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.
"Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.
"Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?
"We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
393
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
That used to be so brown.
"We never heard her speak in haste;
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.
"You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread."
~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,
1291:Bride Song
From 'The Prince's Progress'
TOO late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loiter'd on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.
Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leap'd,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.
Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now there are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?
We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seem'd never soft to her,
Though toss'd of down;
104
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks
That used to be so brown.
We never heard her speak in haste:
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.
You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread.
~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,
1292:Last Sonnets At Paris
Chins that might serve the new Jerusalem;
Streets footsore; minute whisking milliners,
Dubbed graceful, but at whom one's eye demurs,
Knowing of England; ladies, much the same;
Bland smiling dogs with manes—a few of them
At pains to look like sporting characters;
Vast humming tabbies smothered in their furs;
Groseille, orgeat, meringues à la crême—
Good things to study; ditto bad—the maps
Of sloshy colour in the Louvre; cinq-francs
The largest coin; and at the restaurants
Large Ibrahim Pachas in Turkish caps
To pocket them. Un million d'habitants:
Cast up, they'll make an Englishman—perhaps.
II
Tiled floors in bedrooms; trees (now run to seed—
Such seed as the wind takes) of Liberty;
Squares with new names that no one seems to see;
Scrambling Briarean passages, which lead
To the first place you came from; urgent need
Of unperturbed nasal philosophy;
Through Paris (what with church and gallery)
Some forty first-rate paintings,—or indeed
Fifty mayhap; fine churches; splendid inns;
Fierce sentinels (toy-size without the stands)
Who spit their oaths at you and grind their r's
If at a fountain you would wash your hands;
One Frenchman (this is fact) who thinks he spars:—
Can even good dinners cover all these sins?
III
Yet in the mighty French metropolis
Our time has not gone from us utterly
153
In waste. The wise man saith, “An ample fee
For toil, to work thine end.” Aye that it is.
Should England ask, “Was narrow prejudice
Stretched to its utmost point unflinchingly,
Even unto lying, at all times, by ye?”
We can say firmly: “Lord, thou knowest this,
Our soil may own us.” Having but small French,
Hunt passed for a stern Spartan all the while,
Uncompromising, of few words: for me—
I think I was accounted generally
A fool, and just a little cracked. Thy smile
May light on us, Britannia, healthy wench.
~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,
1293:In Riverview, we stopped at Larkin’s Drugstore for a cold drink. Leaving the rest of us to scramble out unaided, John offered Hannah his hand. Although I’d just seen her leap out of a tree as fearless as a cat, she let him help her.
At the soda fountain, Hannah took a seat beside John. In her white dress, she was as prim and proper as any lady you ever saw. Quite frankly, I liked her better the other way.
I grabbed the stool on the other side of Hannah and spun around on it a couple of times, hoping to get her to spin with me, but the only person who noticed was Mama. She told me to sit still and behave myself. “You act like you have ants in your pants,” she said, embarrassing me and making Theo laugh.
While I was sitting there scowling at Theo in the mirror, John leaned around Hannah and grinned at me. “To celebrate your recovery, Andrew, I’m treating everyone to a lemon phosphate--everyone, that is, except you.”
He paused dramatically, and Hannah gave him a smile so radiant it gave me heartburn. She was going to marry John someday, I knew that. But while I was here, I wanted her all to myself, just Hannah and me playing marbles in the grove, talking, sharing secrets, climbing trees. She had the rest of her life to spend with stupid John Larkin.
“As the guest of honor,” John went on, “you may pick anything your heart desires.”
Slightly placated by his generosity, I stared at the menu. It was amazing what you could buy for a nickel or a dime in 1910.
“Choose a sundae,” Theo whispered. “It costs the most.”
“How about a root beer float?” Hannah suggested.
“Egg milk chocolate,” Mama said. “It would be good for you, Andrew.”
“Tonic water would be even better,” John said, “or, best of all, a delicious dose of cod-liver oil.”
When Hannah gave him a sharp poke in the ribs, John laughed. “Andrew knows I’m teasing. Come on, what will it be, sir?”
Taking Theo’s advice, I asked for a chocolate sundae.
“Good choice,” John said. “You’d have to go all the way to St. Louis to find better ice cream. ~ Mary Downing Hahn,
1294:The Wedding Of Peleus And Thetis
Merrily rose the bridal strain,
With the pipe of reed and the wild harp ringing,
With the Libyan flute, and the dancers' train,
And the bright-haired Muses singing.
On the turf elastic treading,
Up Pelion's steep with an airy bound
Their golden sandals they struck on the ground,
While the mighty gods were feasting round,
As they sped to Peleus' wedding.
They left Pierea's fountain,
On the leaf-crowned hill they stood,
They breathed their softest, sweetest lays
In the bride's and bridegroom's praise.
Reëchoed the Centaur's mountain,
Reëchoed Pelion's wood.
The golden goblets crowned the Page,
The Thunderer's darling boy,
In childhood's rosy age
Snatched from the plains of Troy.
Where on the silvery sand
The noontide sun was glancing,
The fifty Nereids, hand in hand,
Were in giddy circles dancing.
The Centaur's tramp rang up the hill,
To feast with the gods they trooped in haste,
And at the board by Bacchus graced,
The purpling bowl to fill.
Grassy wreath and larch's bough
Twined around each shaggy brow.
Daughter of Nereus, loud to thee
Chaunted the maids of Thessaly.
Their song was of a child unborn,
Whose light should beam like summer morn,
Whose praise by the Delian seer was sung,
And hymned by Chiron's tuneful tongue.
30
'Thetis, mark thy warrior son,
Gift with many a Myrmidon,
Armed with spear and flaming brand,
Wasting Priam's ancient land.
He shall ne'er to foeman quail;
He shall case his limbs in mail,
Casque, and greaves, and breastplate's fold,
All by Vulcan wrought of gold,
Moulded in the forge of heaven,
By his goddess-mother given.
He shall be a hero's name,
Godlike might, and deathless fame.'
Thus the gods propitious smiled
On Peleus and the ocean child;
Lady! not such nuptial wreath
Shall Argives bid thee wear,
But with the flowers of death
Entwine thy clustering hair.
~ Euripides,
1295:Comus.

The Star that bids the Shepherd fold,
Now the top of Heav'n doth hold,
And the gilded Car of Day, [ 95 ]
His glowing Axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantick stream,
And the slope Sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky Pole,
Pacing toward the other gole [ 100 ]
Of his Chamber in the East.
Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast,
Midnight shout, and revelry,
Tipsie dance and Jollity.
Braid your Locks with rosie Twine [ 105 ]
Dropping odours, dropping Wine.
Rigor now is gone to bed,
And Advice with scrupulous head,
Strict Age, and sowre Severity,
With their grave Saws in slumber ly. [ 110 ]
We that are of purer fire
Imitate the Starry Quire,
Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,
Lead in swift round the Months and Years.
The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove [ 115 ]
Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move,
And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves,
Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves;
By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,
The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim, [ 120 ]
Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:
What hath night to do with sleep?
Night hath better sweets to prove,
Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love.
Com let us our rights begin, [ 125 ]
Tis onely day-light that makes Sin,
Which these dun shades will ne're report.
Hail Goddesse of Nocturnal sport
Dark vaild Cotytto, t' whom the secret flame
Of mid-night Torches burns; mysterious Dame [ 130 ]
That ne're art call'd, but when the Dragon woom
Of Stygian darknes spets her thickest gloom,
And makes one blot of all the ayr,
Stay thy cloudy Ebon chair,
Wherin thou rid'st with Hecat', and befriend [ 135 ]
Us thy vow'd Priests, till utmost end
Of all thy dues be done, and none left out,
Ere the blabbing Eastern scout,
The nice Morn on th' Indian steep
From her cabin'd loop hole peep, [ 140 ]
And to the tel-tale Sun discry
Our conceal'd Solemnity.
Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,
In a light fantastick round. ~ John Milton,
1296:Haunts Of A Demon (Extract From Saul)
The Jewish king now walks at large and sound,
Yet of our emissary Malzah hear we nothing:
Go now, sweet spirit, and, if need be, seek
This world all lover for him:--find him out,
Be he within the bounds of earth and hell.
He is a most erratic spirit, so
May give thee trouble (as I give thee time)
To find him, for he may be now diminished,
And at the bottom of some silken flower,
Wherein, I know, he loves, when evening comes,
To creep and lie all night, encanopied
Beneath the manifold and scented petals;
Fancying, he says, he bids the world adieu,
And is again a slumberer in heaven:
Or, in some other vein, perchance thou'lt find him
Within the halls or dens of some famed city.
Give thou a general search, in open day,
I' th' town and country's ample field; and next
Seek him in dusky cave, and in dim grot;
And in the shadow of the precipice,
Prone or supine extended motionless;
Or, in the twilight of o'erhanging leaves,
Swung at the nodding arm of some vast beech.
By moonlight seek him on the mountain, and
At noon in the translucent waters salt or fresh;
Or near the dank-marged fountain, or clear well,
Watching the tad-pole thrive on suck of venom;
Or where the brook runs O'er the stones, and smooths
Their green locks with its current's crystal comb.
Seek him in rising vapours, and in clouds
Crimson or dun; and often on the edge
Of the gray morning and the tawny eve:
Search in the rocky alcove and woody bower;
And in the crow's-nest look, and every
Pilgrim-crowd-drawing Idol, wherein he
Is wont to sit in darkness and be worshipped.
If thou shouldst find him not in these, search for him
By the lone melancholy tarns of bitterns;
And in the embosomed dells, whereunto maidens
Resort to bathe within the tepid pool.
Look specially there, and, if thou seest peeping
Satyr or faun, give chase and call out 'Malzah!'
For he shall know thy voice and his own name.
~ Charles Heavysege,
1297:A Royal Home-Coming
Welcome, right welcome home, to these blest Isles,
Where, unforgotten, loved Victoria sleeps,
But now with happy pride your Father smiles,
Your Mother weeps.
You went as came the swallow, homeward draw
Now it hath winged its way to winters green;
But never swallow or wandering sea-bird saw
What You have seen.
For You have circled the earth with pinions fleet,
The seasons through, and everywhere a throng
Of glowing hearts your coming trooped to greet
With flowers and song.
Over the unchanging sea eight changeful moons
Have moved from shield to sickle, seed to sheaves,
And twice a hundred dawns, a hundred noons,
A hundred eves,
Waned to their slumber in the star-lit night,
And ever from land or lake, from wave or crag,
From fixed or floating fort, You had in sight
The British Flag.
And wider, further, onward round the world,
Scouring the field or furrowing the sea,
You found that Emblem, which, where'er unfurled,
Floats o'er the Free:
So that on man, and man's laborious hand,
Nor manacle nor hindrance shall be laid,
But mind with mind, and strand with generous strand,
Contend and trade.
And, though the shade of treasonable strife
Falls on our homes and theirs, You, wandering, saw,
Young Commonwealths You found, surging with life,
Yet ruled by Law:
82
Whose blood, infused in ours in War's emprise,
To vindicate one Sceptre, sword, and tongue,As ours perchance may help to keep them wise,Hath made us young.
Fountain of Youth England in mellower years
Hath found and drained, so that She ne'er need know
What Nature feels when Autumn stacks and seres,
Or Yule-gusts blow.
You sailed from us to them, from them to us,
Love at the prow and wisdom at the helm,
August Ambassadors, who strengthen thus
Her Rule and Realm.
Round You to-day a People stand arrayed,
That fain with Peace two wedded worlds would dower,
Therefore rejoicing mightier hath been made
Imperial Power.
~ Alfred Austin,
1298:Shoveling Snow With Buddha
In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.
Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.
Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?
But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.
This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.
He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.
All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
50
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.
After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?
Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.
Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.
~ Billy Collins,
1299:Arabesque
On a background of pale gold
I would trace with quaint design,
Penciled fine,
Brilliant-colored, Moorish scenes,
Mosques and crescents, pages, queens,
Line on line,
That the prose-world of to-day
Might the gorgeous Past's array
Once behold.
On the magic painted shield
Rich Granada's Vega green
Should be seen;
Crystal fountains, coolness flinging,
Hanging gardens' skyward springing
Emerald sheen;
Ruddy when the daylight falls,
Crowned Alhambra's beetling walls
Stand revealed;
Balconies that overbrow
Field and city, vale and stream.
In a dream
Lulled the drowsy landscape basks;
Mark the gleam
Silvery of each white-swathed peak!
Mountain-airs caress the cheek,
Fresh from the snow.
Here in Lindaraxa's bower
The immortal roses bloom;
In the room
Lion-guarded, marble-paven,
Still the fountain leaps to heaven.
But the doom
Of the banned and stricken race
Overshadows every place,
Every hour.
39
Where fair Lindaraxa dwelt
Flits the bat on velvet wings;
Mute the strings
Of the broken mandoline;
The Pavilion of the Queen
Widely flings
Vacant windows to the night;
Moonbeams kiss the floor with light
Where she knelt.
Through these halls that people stepped
Who through darkling centuries
Held the keys
Of all wisdom, truth, and art,
In a Paradise apart,
Lapped in ease,
Sagely pondering deathless themes,
While, befooled with monkish dreams,
Europe slept.
Where shall they be found today?
Yonder hill that frets the sky
'The last Sigh
Of the Moor' is named still.
There the ill-starred Boabdil
Bade good-by
To Granada and to Spain,
Where the Crescent ne'er again
Holdeth sway.
Vanished like the wind that blows,
Whither shall we seek their trace
On earth's face?
The gigantic wheel of fate,
Crushing all things soon or late,
Now a race,
Now a single life o'erruns,
Now a universe of suns,
Now a rose.
~ Emma Lazarus,
1300:After The Funeral (In Memory Of Ann Jones)
After the funeral, mule praises, brays,
Windshake of sailshaped ears, muffle-toed tap
Tap happily of one peg in the thick
Grave's foot, blinds down the lids, the teeth in black,
The spittled eyes, the salt ponds in the sleeves,
Morning smack of the spade that wakes up sleep,
Shakes a desolate boy who slits his throat
In the dark of the coffin and sheds dry leaves,
That breaks one bone to light with a judgment clout'
After the feast of tear-stuffed time and thistles
In a room with a stuffed fox and a stale fern,
I stand, for this memorial's sake, alone
In the snivelling hours with dead, humped Ann
Whose hodded, fountain heart once fell in puddles
Round the parched worlds of Wales and drowned each sun
(Though this for her is a monstrous image blindly
Magnified out of praise; her death was a still drop;
She would not have me sinking in the holy
Flood of her heart's fame; she would lie dumb and deep
And need no druid of her broken body).
But I, Ann's bard on a raised hearth, call all
The seas to service that her wood-tongud virtue
Babble like a bellbuoy over the hymning heads,
Bow down the walls of the ferned and foxy woods
That her love sing and swing through a brown chapel,
Blees her bent spirit with four, crossing birds.
Her flesh was meek as milk, but this skyward statue
With the wild breast and blessed and giant skull
Is carved from her in a room with a wet window
In a fiercely mourning house in a crooked year.
I know her scrubbed and sour humble hands
Lie with religion in their cramp, her threadbare
Whisper in a damp word, her wits drilled hollow,
Her fist of a face died clenched on a round pain;
And sculptured Ann is seventy years of stone.
These cloud-sopped, marble hands, this monumental
Argument of the hewn voice, gesture and psalm
Storm me forever over her grave until
The stuffed lung of the fox twitch and cry Love
27
And the strutting fern lay seeds on the black sill.
~ Dylan Thomas,
1301:But as soon as we touched, I felt magic crackle over and through me, so strong that I tried to jerk my hand back. But he held tight until, finally, the crackling sensation stopped. My hand slid out of his, and I leaped up from the fountain."What the hell was-"
Then I looked down and realized I was completely dry. Not only that, but my demure black dress had been replaced with...well, another black dress, but this one was a lot shorter, sparklier, and also rocking a very low neckline. Even my hair was different, transformed from a soggy braid to silky brown waves.
Nick winked at me. "That's better. Now you look more like the Demon Who Would be Queen." He heaved himself out of the water and grabbed Jenna's hand. Within seconds, she went from drowned rat to hottie, her soaked clothes replaced with-what else?-a pink sundress. Of course it showed a lot more skin than anything Jenna would have picked out for herself.
"Oh,lovely,Nick," Daisy said, rolling her eyes as he wrapped an arm around her waist.
"What?" he asked once he laid a smacking kiss on her cheek. "They look better like that."
Without thinking,I reached out and grabbed Nick's free arm. His wet white T-shirt and jeans rippled, and suddenly he was wearing a Day-Glo yellow tank top and acid-washed jeans. "And you look better like this."
I wasn't sure if it was the ridiculous sight of Nick in those clothes, or the fact that I'd done a spell so easily-with absolutely no explosions-but I could feel my lips curving upward in a smile. As Daisy hooted with laughter, Nick narrowed his eyes at me. "Okay, now you're in for it." He waved his hand, and suddenly I was sweltering. When I glanced down, I saw that it was because I was now dressed like the Easter Bunny.But with the flick of one fuzzy paw,I'd transformed Nick's jeans and tank top into a snowsuit.
Then I was in a bikini.
So Nick was wearing a particularly poofy purple prom dress.
By the time he'd turned my clothes into a showgirl's costume, complete with a feathery headdress, and I'd put him in a scuba suit, we were both completely magic drunk and giggling. ~ Rachel Hawkins,
1302:Our Secret Selves
The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . .
It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls
Down golden-windowed walls.
We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain,
We do not remember the red roots whence we rose,
But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while
We shall lie down again.
The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn,
Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . .
One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him,
We bear him away, gaze after his listless body;
But whether he lives or dies we do not know.
One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him;
The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow.
He sings of a house he lived in long ago.
It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in;
The house you lived in, the house that all of us know.
And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him,
And throwing him pennies, we bear away
A mournful echo of other times and places,
And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay.
Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow;
Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting;
In broken slow cascades.
The gardens extend before us . . . We spread out swiftly;
Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . .
And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness,
Vaguely and incoherently, some dream
Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . .
A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam;
Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills.
We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea;
We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down;
We close our eyes to music in bright cafees.
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We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent.
We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays.
And, growing tired, we turn aside at last,
Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers,
Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb;
Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream
Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime.
~ Conrad Potter Aiken,
1303:
XVII - AT THE FOUNTAIN

MARGARET and LISBETH With pitchers.

LISBETH

Hast nothing heard of Barbara?

MARGARET

No, not a word. I go so little out.

LISBETH

It's true, Sibylla said, to-day.
She's played the fool at last, there's not a doubt.
Such taking-on of airs!

MARGARET

How so?
LISBETH

It stinks!
She's feeding two, whene'er she eats and drinks.

MARGARET

Ah!

LISBETH

   And so, at last, it serves her rightly.
She clung to the fellow so long and tightly!
That was a promenading!
At village and dance parading!
As the first they must everywhere shine,
And he treated her always to pies and wine,
And she made a to-do with her face so fine;
So mean and shameless was her behavior,
She took all the presents the fellow gave her.
'Twas kissing and coddling, on and on!
So now, at the end, the flower is gone.

MARGARET

The poor, poor thing!

LISBETH

Dost pity her, at that?
When one of us at spinning sat,
And mother, nights, ne'er let us out the door
She sported with her paramour.
On the door-bench, in the passage dark,
The length of the time they'd never mark.
So now her head no more she'll lift,
But do church-penance in her sinner's shift!

MARGARET

He'll surely take her for his wife.

LISBETH

He'd be a fool! A brisk young blade
Has room, elsewhere, to ply his trade.
Besides, he's gone.

MARGARET

That is not fair!
LISBETH

If him she gets, why let her beware!
The boys shall dash her wreath on the floor,
And we'll scatter chaff before her door!

[Exit.

MARGARET (returning home)

How scornfully I once reviled,
When some poor maiden was beguiled!
More speech than any tongue suffices
I craved, to censure others' vices.
Black as it seemed, I blackened still,
And blacker yet was in my will;
And blessed myself, and boasted high,
And nowa living sin am I!
Yetall that drove my heart thereto,
God! was so good, so dear, so true!
Faust
~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, AT THE FOUNTAIN
,
1304: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
,
1305:To Poesy
Yet do not thou forsake me now,
Poesy, with Peace-together!
Ere this last disastrous blow
Did lay my struggling fortunes low,
In love unworn have we not borne
Much wintry weather?
The storm is past, perhaps the last,
Its rainy skirts are wearing over
But though yet a sunnier glow
Should give my ice-bound hopes to flow,
Forlorn of thee, ’twere nought to me
A lonely rover!
Ah, misery! what were then my lot
Amongst a race of unbelievers
Sordid men who all declare
That earthly gain alone is fair,
And they who pore on bardic lore
Deceived deceivers.
That all the love I’ve felt to move
Round beauty in thy fountain laving,
Move in music through the air,
Gathering increase everywhere,
The more to bless her loveliness,
Was Folly raving!
That to believe thought yet shall weave,—
Although with arm’d oppression coping,
Truth-bright banners which, unfurled,
Shall herald freedom through the world,
And give to man her kindly plan,
Is Folly hoping!
On thy breast in sabbath rest
How often have I lain, deep musing
In the golden eventide,
Till all the dead, for truth that died,
Looked from the skies with starry eyes,
268
Great thoughts infusing!
But can it be life’s mystery
Is but a baseless panorama,
Peopled thick with passing dreams,
Wild writhing glooms, and wandering gleams,
And soul a breath exhaled by death,
Which ends the drama?
Then is the scope of this world’s hope
No more than worldlings deem it ever,
Earth and sky, with nought between
Of spiritual truth serene:
And if so, fly! for thou and I
At once should sever.
But if there lives, as love believes,
All underneath this silent heaven,
In yon shades, and by yon streams,
As we have seen them in our dreams,
A deathless race; still let thy grace
My being leaven!
Thy mystic grace! that face to face
Full converse I may hold with nature,
Seeing published everywhere
In forms, the soul that makes her fair,
And grow the while to her large style
In mental stature.
~ Charles Harpur,
1306:If thou would'st hear the Nameless, and wilt dive Into the Temple-cave of thine own self, There, brooding by the central altar, thou May'st haply learn the Nameless hath a voice, By which thou wilt abide, if thou be wise, As if thou knewest, tho' thou canst not know; For Knowledge is the swallow on the lake That sees and stirs the surface-shadow there But never yet hath dipt into the abysm, The Abysm of all Abysms, beneath, within The blue of sky and sea, the green of earth, And in the million-millionth of a grain Which cleft and cleft again for evermore, And ever vanishing, never vanishes, To me, my son, more mystic than myself, Or even than the Nameless is to me. And when thou sendest thy free soul thro' heaven, Nor understandest bound nor boundlessness, Thou seest the Nameless of the hundred names. And if the Nameless should withdraw from all Thy frailty counts most real, all thy world Might vanish like thy shadow in the dark. 'And since -- from when this earth began -- The Nameless never came Among us, never spake with man, And never named the Name' -- Thou canst not prove the Nameless, O my son, Nor canst thou prove the world thou movest in, Thou canst not prove that thou art body alone, Nor canst thou prove that thou art spirit alone, Nor canst thou prove that thou art both in one: Thou canst not prove thou art immortal, no Nor yet that thou art mortal -- nay my son, Thou canst not prove that I, who speak with thee, Am not thyself in converse with thyself, For nothing worthy proving can be proven, Nor yet disproven: wherefore thou be wise, Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt, And cling to Faith beyond the forms of Faith She reels not in the storm of warring words, She brightens at the clash of 'Yes' and 'No', She sees the Best that glimmers thro' the Worst, She feels the Sun is hid but for a night, She spies the summer thro' the winter bud, She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls, She hears the lark within the songless egg, She finds the fountain where they wail'd 'Mirage'! [2490.jpg] -- from The Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse, Edited by D. H. S. Nicholson / Edited by A. H. E. Lee

~ Alfred Tennyson, If thou wouldst hear the Nameless (from The Ancient Sage)
,
1307:The Mermaid
Who would be
A mermaid fair,
Singing alone,
Combing her hair
Under the sea,
In a golden curl
With a comb of pearl,
On a throne?
II
I would be a mermaid fair;
I would sing to myself the whole of the day;
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;
And still as I comb'd I would sing and say,
'Who is it loves me? who loves not me?'
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall
Low adown, low adown,
From under my starry sea-bud crown
Low adown and around,
And I should look like a fountain of gold
Springing alone
With a shrill inner sound
Over the throne
In the midst of the hall;
Till that great sea-snake under the sea
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate
With his large calm eyes for the love of me.
And all the mermen under the sea
Would feel their immortality
Die in their hearts for the love of me.
III
But at night I would wander away, away,
688
I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks,
And lightly vault from the throne and play
With the mermen in and out of the rocks;
We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,
On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells,
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea.
But if any came near I would call and shriek,
And adown the steep like a wave I would leap
From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells;
For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea.
They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,
In the purple twilights under the sea;
But the king of them all would carry me,
Woo me, and win me, and marry me,
In the branching jaspers under the sea.
Then all the dry-pied things that be
In the hueless mosses under the sea
Would curl round my silver feet silently,
All looking up for the love of me.
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft
All things that are forked, and horned, and soft
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,
All looking down for the love of me.
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,
1308:The House Of Dust: Part 01: 05: The Snow Floats
Down Upon Us, Mingled With Rain
The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain...
It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls
Down golden-windowed walls.
We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain,
We do not remember the red roots whence we rose,
But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while
We shall lie down again.
The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn,
Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow...
One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him,
We bear him away, gaze after his listless body;
But whether he lives or dies we do not know.
One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him;
The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow.
He sings of a house he lived in long ago.
It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in;
The house you lived in, the house that all of us know.
And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him,
And throwing him pennies, we bear away
A mournful echo of other times and places,
And follow a dream... a dream that will not stay.
Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow;
Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting;
In broken slow cascades.
The gardens extend before us... We spread out swiftly;
Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades...
And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness,
Vaguely and incoherently, some dream
Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills...
A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam;
Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills.
We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea;
213
We
We
We
We
reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down;
close our eyes to music in bright cafes.
diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent.
loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays.
And, growing tired, we turn aside at last,
Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers,
Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb;
Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream
Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime.
~ Conrad Potter Aiken,
1309:Sîva
Mors Janua Vitae.
I am the God of the sensuous fire
That moulds all Nature in forms divine;
The symbols of death and of man’s desire,
The springs of change in the world, are mine;
The organs of birth and the circlet of bones,
And the light loves carved on the temple stones.
I am the lord of delights and pain,
Of the pest that killeth, of fruitful joys;
I rule the currents of heart and vein;
A touch gives passion, a look destroys;
In the heat and cold of my lightest breath
Is the might incarnate of Lust and Death.
If a thousand altars stream with blood
Of the victims slain by the chanting priest,
Is a great God lured by the savoury food?
I reck not of worship, or song, or feast;
But that millions perish, each hour that flies,
Is the mystic sign of my sacrifice.
Ye may plead and pray for the millions born;
They come like dew on the morning grass;
Your vows and vigils I hold in scorn,
The soul stays never, the stages pass;
All life is the play of the power that stirs
In the dance of my wanton worshippers.
And the strong swift river my shrine below
It runs, like man, its unending course
To the boundless sea from eternal snow;
Mine is the Fountain—and mine the Force
That spurs all nature to ceaseless strife;
And my image is Death at the gates of Life.
In many a legend and many a shape,
In the solemn grove and the crowded street,
I am the Slayer, whom none escape;
I am Death trod under a fair girl’s feet;
I govern the tides of the sentient sea
That ebbs and flows to eternity.
And the sum of the thought and the knowledge of man
Is the secret tale that my emblems tell;
Do ye seek God’s purpose, or trace his plan?
Ye may read your doom in my parable:
For the circle of life in its flower and its fall
Is the writing that runs on my temple wall.…
Let my temples fall, they are dark with age,
Let my idols break, they have stood their day;
On their deep hewn stones the primeval sage
Has figured the spells that endure alway;
My presence may vanish from river and grove,
But I rule for ever in Death and Love.
~ Alfred Comyn Lyall,
1310:Husband?” “I told them we were betrothed.” Cam took her arm in a gentle but adamant grip and guided her around to the other side of the yew, where they could not be observed from the house. “Why?” “Because we are.” “What?” They stopped in the concealment of the hedge. Aghast, Amelia looked up into his warm hazel eyes. “Are you mad?” Taking her hand, Cam lifted it until the ring gleamed in the daylight. “You’re wearing my ring. You slept with me. You made promises. Many in the Rom would say that constitutes full-blown marriage. But just to make certain it’s legal, we’ll do it the way of the gadjos as well.” “We’ll do no such thing!” Amelia snatched her hand from his and backed away. “I’m only wearing this ring because I can’t get the blasted thing off. And what do you mean, I made promises? Were those Romany words you asked me to repeat some kind of vow? You tricked me! I didn’t mean what I said.” “But you did sleep with me.” She flushed in shame and outrage, and dragged a sleeve across her sweating brow. Whirling away from him, she strode rapidly along a graveled path that led deeper into the garden. “That didn’t mean anything, either,” she said over her shoulder. He kept pace with her easily. “It meant something to me. The sexual act is sacred to a Roma.” She made a scornful sound. “What about all the ladies you seduced in London? Was it sacred when you slept with them, too?” “For a while I fell into the impure ways of the gadjo,” he said innocently. “Now I’ve reformed.” Amelia sent him a sideways glare. “You don’t want this. You don’t want me. One night can’t change the entire course of someone’s life.” “Of course it can.” He reached for her, and Amelia skittered away, passing a mermaid fountain surrounded by stone benches. Cam caught her from behind and jerked her back against him. “Stop running from me and listen. I do want you. I want you even knowing if I marry you, I’ve got an instant family, complete with a suicidal brother-in-law and a Gypsy houseboy with the temperament of a poked bear.” “Merripen is not a houseboy.” “Call him what you like. He comes with the Hathaways. I accept that.” “They won’t accept you,” she said desperately. “There’s no place for you in our family.” “Yes there is. Right by your side. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
1311:The Lost Garden
There was a fair green garden sloping
From the south-east side of the mountain-ledge;
And the earliest tint of the dawn came groping
Down through its paths, from the day's dim edge.
The bluest skies and the reddest roses
Arched and varied its velvet sod;
And the glad birds sang, as the soul supposes
The angels sing on the hills of God.
I wandered there when my veins seemed bursting
With life's rare rapture and keen delight,
And yet in my heart was a constant thirsting
For something over the mountain-height.
I wanted to stand in the blaze of glory
That turned to crimson the peaks of snow,
And the winds from the west all breathed a story
Of realms and regions I longed to know.
I saw on the garden's south side growing
The brightest blossoms that breathe of June;
I saw in the east how the sun was glowing,
And the gold air shook with a wild bird's tune;
I heard the drip of a silver fountain,
And the pulse of a young laugh throbbed with glee
But still I looked out over the mountain
Where unnamed wonders awaited me.
I came at last to the western gateway,
That led to the path I longed to climb;
But a shadow fell on my spirit straightway,
For close at my side stood gray-beard Time.
I paused, with feet that were fain to linger,
Hard by that garden's golden gate,
But Time spoke, pointing with one stern finger;
'Pass on,' he said, 'for the day groes late.'
And now on the chill giay cliffs I wander,
The heights recede which I thought to find,
And the light seems dim on the mountain yonder,
When I think of the garden I left behind.
Should I stand at last on its summit's splendor,
I know full well it would not repay
For the fair lost tints of the dawn so tender
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That crept up over the edge o' day.
I would go back, but the ways are winding,
If ways there are to that land, in sooth,
For what man succeeds in ever finding
A path to the garden of his lost youth?
But I think sometimes, when the June stars glisten,
That a rose scent dufts from far away,
And I know, when I lean from the cliffs and listen,
That a young laugh breaks on the air like spray.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
1312:The Two Glasses
There sat two glasses, filled to the brim,
On a rich man's table, rim to rim.
One was ruddy and red as blood,
And one was clear as the crystal flood.
Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,
"Let us tell tales of the past to each other;
I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth,
Where I was a king, for I ruled in might;
For the proudest and grandest souls on earth
Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.
From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;
From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.
I have blasted many an honored name;
I have taken virtue and given shame;
I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,
That has made his future a barren waste.
Far greater than any king am I,
Or than any army beneath the sky.
I have made the arm of the driver fail,
And sent the train from the iron rail.
I have made good ships go down at sea,
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.
Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;
Ho, ho! pale brother," said the wine,
"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"
Said the water-glass: "I cannot boast
Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host,
But I can tell of hearts that were sad
By my crystal drops made bright and glad;
Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved;
Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.
I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain,
Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.
I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,
And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye;
I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;
I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.
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I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,
That ground out the flower, and turned at my will.
I can tell of manhood debased by you,
That I have uplifted and crowned anew;
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;
I gladden the heart of man and maid;
I set the wine-chained captive free,
And all are better for knowing me."
These are the tales they told each other,
The glass of wine and its paler brother,
As they sat together, filled to the brim,
On a rich man's table, rim to rim.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
1313:Moving Through The Dew
Moving through the dew, moving through the dew,
Ere I waken in the city—Life, thy dawn makes all things new!
And up a fir-clad glen, far from all the haunts of men,
Up a glen among the mountains, oh my feet are wings again!
Moving through the dew, moving through the dew,
O mountains of my boyhood, I come again to you,
By the little path I know, with the sea far below,
And above, the great cloud-galleons with their sails of rose and snow
As of old, when all was young, and the earth a song unsung
And the heather through the crimson dawn its Eden incense flung
From the mountain-heights of joy, for a careless-hearted boy,
And the lavrocks rose like fountain sprays of bliss that ne’er could cloy,
From their little beds of bloom, from the golden gorse and broom,
With a song to God the Giver, o’er that waste of wild perfume;
Blowing from height to height, in a glory of great light,
While the cottage-clustered valleys held the lilac last of night,
So, when dawn is in the skies, in a dream, a dream, I rise,
And I follow my lost boyhood to the heights of Paradise.
Life, thy dawn makes all things new! Hills of Youth, I come to you,
Moving through the dew, moving through the dew.
II
Moving through the dew, moving through the dew,
Floats a brother’s face to meet me! Is it you? Is it you?
For the night I leave behind keeps these dazzled eyes still blind!
But oh, the little hill-flowers, their scent is wise and kind;
58
And I shall not lose the way from the darkness to the day,
While dust can cling as their scent clings to memory for aye;
And the least link in the chain can recall the whole again,
And heaven at last resume its far-flung harvests, grain by grain.
To the hill-flowers clings my dust, and tho’ eyeless Death may thrust
All else into the darkness, in their heaven I put my trust;
And a dawn shall bid me climb to the little spread of thyme
Where first I heard the ripple of the fountain-heads of rhyme.
And a fir-wood that I know, from dawn to sunset-glow,
Shall whisper to a lonely sea, that swings far, far below.
Death, thy dawn makes all things new. Hills of Youth, I come to you,
Moving through the dew, moving through the dew.
~ Alfred Noyes,
1314:The Road To Avignon
A Minstrel stands on a marble stair,
Blown by the bright wind, debonair;
Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor,
Above on the terrace a turret door
Frames a lady, listless and wan,
But fair for the eye to rest upon.
The minstrel plucks at his silver strings,
And looking up to the lady, sings: -Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
The octagon tower casts a shade
Cool and gray like a cutlass blade;
In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin,
The little green lizards run out and in.
A sail dips over the ocean's rim,
And bubbles rise to the fountain's brim.
The minstrel touches his silver strings,
And gazing up to the lady, sings: -Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
Slowly she walks to the balustrade,
Idly notes how the blossoms fade
In the sun's caress; then crosses where
The shadow shelters a carven chair.
Within its curve, supine she lies,
And wearily closes her tired eyes.
The minstrel beseeches his silver strings,
And holding the lady spellbound, sings: -Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
394
Clouds sail over the distant trees,
Petals are shaken down by the breeze,
They fall on the terrace tiles like snow;
The sighing of waves sounds, far below.
A humming-bird kisses the lips of a rose
Then laden with honey and love he goes.
The minstrel woos with his silver strings,
And climbing up to the lady, sings: -Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
Step by step, and he comes to her,
Fearful lest she suddenly stir.
Sunshine and silence, and each to each,
The lute and his singing their only speech;
He leans above her, her eyes unclose,
The humming-bird enters another rose.
The minstrel hushes his silver strings.
Hark! The beating of humming-birds' wings!
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
~ Amy Lowell,
1315:His readiness to answer my questions caused my mind to glitter with new ideas, like a fountain in the sunlight. I was suddenly eager to try my own theories of government, formed during my half year of reading. I launched a barrage of questions related to the merits of an all volunteer army paid from crown revenues, versus each noble being responsible for a certain number of trained and equipped soldiers should the need arise. To each question Shevraeth readily responded, until we had a conversation--not quite a debate--going about the strengths and weaknesses of each method of keeping the country safe.
Very soon I began to see where my lapses of knowledge were, for he knew the books I quoted from. Further, he knew the sources’ strengths and weaknesses, whereas I had taken them as authorities. Still, I was enjoying myself, until I remembered what he’d said about listening to busybodies. Immediately full of self-doubt at the thought, I wondered if I sounded like one of those busybodies. Or worse, had I betrayed my secret quest?
Abruptly I stopped talking and turned my attention to my dinner, which lay cold and untouched on my plate. Stealing a quick glance up, I realized that I’d also kept Shevraeth talking so that his dinner was equally cold. I picked up my fork, fighting against another surge of those old feelings of helpless anger.
Into the sudden silence Branaric laughed, then said, “You’ve left me behind. What have you been reading, Mel? Life! You should go up to Erev-li-Erval and help take the field against the Djurans. Unless you’re planning another revolution here!”
“Were you thinking of taking the field against me?” the Marquis addressed me in his usual drawl.
Aghast, I choked on a bite of food. Then I saw the gleam of humor in his eyes, and realized he’d been joking. “But I’m not,” I squawked. “Not at all! I just like, well, reading and thinking about these things.”
“And testing your knowledge, Danric,” Bran added.
“Whether you are testing mine or your own, you really will get your best information firsthand,” Shevraeth said to me. “Come to Athanarel. Study the records. Ask questions.”
Was he really inviting me straight out to do what I’d resolved so secretly? I had no idea what to make of this. “I promised Nimiar I’d come,” I mumbled, and that ended the subject. ~ Sherwood Smith,
1316:When I see the lark beating Its wings in joy against the rays of the sun That it forgets itself and lets itself fall Because of the sweetness that comes to its heart, Alas! Such great envy then overwhelms me Of all those whom I see rejoicing, I wonder that my heart, at that moment, Does not melt from desire. Alas! How much I thought I knew About love, and how little I know, Because I cannot keep myself from loving The one from whom I will gain nothing. She has all my heart, and my soul, And herself and the whole world; And when she left, nothing remained But desire and a longing heart. I have never had power over myself Nor been by own man from the very hour When she let me see into her eyes, Into a mirror that pleases me so much. Mirror, since I saw myself in you, I have been slain by deep sighs, That I have lost myself just as the handsome Narcissus did in the fountain. I despair of ladies; I will never trust them again; As I used to defend them Now I shall abandon them, Because I see no one who does any good for me Against her who destroys and confounds me, I fear and distrust them all, Because I know very well that they are all alike. She really shows herself to be a woman in this, My lady, for which I condemn her; Because she does not want what she should want, And what she shouldn't do, she does. I have fallen on an evil grace, And I have indeed acted like the fool on the bridge And I do not know how this happened to me, Unless I tried to climb too high on the mountain. Mercy is indeed lost, And I never knew it, Because she, who ought to have most of it, Has none, and where will I look for it? Ah! It would never seem, when looking at her, That she would let this love-sick wretch, Who will never be well without her, To die, without helping him. Since these things will never bring me good from my lady, Neither prayers, pity, nor the rights I have, Nor is it a pleasure to her That I love her, I will never tell her again. Thus I part from her and give her up. She has slain me, and through death I will respond, And I go away, since she does not ask me to stay, Wretched, into exile, I know not where. Tristan, you will have nothing more from me, For I go away, wretched, I know not where. I will withdraw from singing and renounce it, And I hide myself from joy and love.

~ Bernart de Ventadorn, When I see the lark beating
,
1317: Parabrahman
These wanderings of the suns, these stars at play
In the due measure that they chose of old,
Nor only these, but all the immense array
Of objects that long Time, far Space can hold,

Poems from Ahana and Other Poems
Are divine moments. They are thoughts that form,
They are vision in the Self of things august
And therefore grandly real. Rule and norm
Are processes that they themselves adjust.

The Self of things is not their outward view,
A Force within decides. That Force is He;
His movement is the shape of things we knew,
Movement of Thought is Space and Time. A free
And sovereign master of His world within,
He is not bound by what He does or makes,
He is not bound by virtue or by sin,
Awake who sleeps and when He sleeps awakes.

He is not bound by waking or by sleep;
He is not bound by anything at all.

Laws are that He may conquer them. To creep
Or soar is at His will, to rise or fall.

One from of old possessed Himself above
Who was not anyone nor had a form,
Nor yet was formless. Neither hate nor love
Could limit His perfection, peace nor storm.

He is, we cannot say; for Nothing too
Is His conception of Himself unguessed.

He dawns upon us and we would pursue,
But who has found Him or what arms possessed?
He is not anything, yet all is He;
He is not all but far exceeds that scope.

Both Time and Timelessness sink in that sea:
Time is a wave and Space a wandering drop.
217

218

Baroda and Bengal, c. 1900 - 1909
Within Himself He shadowed Being forth,
Which is a younger birth, a veil He chose
To half-conceal Him, Knowledge, nothing worth
Save to have glimpses of its mighty cause,
And high Delight, a spirit infinite,
That is the fountain of this glorious world,
Delight that labours in its opposite,
Faints in the rose and on the rack is curled.

This was the triune playground that He made
And One there sports awhile. He plucks His flowers
And by His bees is stung; He is dismayed,
Flees from Himself or has His sullen hours.

The Almighty One knew labour, failure, strife;
Knowledge forgot divined itself again:
He made an eager death and called it life,
He stung Himself with bliss and called it pain.
~ Sri Aurobindo, - Parabrahman
,
1318:We are focus-points of consciousness, [...] enormously creative. When we enter the self-constructed hologrammetric arena we call spacetime, we begin at once to generate creativity particles, imajons, in violent continuous pyrotechnic deluge. Imajons have no charge of their own but are strongly polarized through our attitudes and by the force of our choice and desire into clouds of conceptons, a family of very-high-energy particles which may be positive, negative or neutral. [...] Some common positive conceptions are exhilarons, excytons, rhapsodons, jovions. Common negative conceptions include gloomons, tormentons, tribulons, agonons, miserons.
"Indefinite numbers of conceptions are created in nonstop eruption, a thundering cascade of creativity pouring from every center of personal consciousness. They mushroom into conception clouds, which can be neutral or strongly charged - buoyant, weightless or leaden, depending on the nature of their dominant particles.
"Every nanosecond an indefinite number of conception clouds build to critical mass, then transform in quantum bursts to high-energy probability waves radiating at tachyon speeds through an eternal reservoir of supersaturated alternate events. Depending on their charge and nature, the probability waves crystallize certain of these potential events to match the mental polarity of their creating consciousness into holographic appearance. [...]
"The materialized events become that mind's experience, freighted with all the aspects of physical structure necessary to make them real and learningful to the creating consciousness. This autonomic process is the fountain from which springs every object and event in the theater of spacetime.
"The persuasion of the imajon hypothesis lies in its capacity for personal verification. The hypothesis predicts that as we focus our conscious intention on the positive and life-affirming, as we fasten our thought on these values, we polarize masses of positive conceptions, realize beneficial probability-waves, bring useful alternate events to us that otherwise would not have appeared to exist.
"The reverse is true in the production of negative events, as is the mediocre in-between. Through default or intention, unaware or by design, we not only choose but create the visible outer conditions that are most resonant to our inner state of being [...] ~ Richard Bach,
1319:She came to a complete stop when she realized that the fountain, one that sported stone mermaids spouting water out of their mouths, seemed to have acquired additional statues. These statues, however, did not fit in with the mermaids but instead seemed to be mud-covered blobs with lily pads stuck all over them. When one of the blobs suddenly raised a hand and rubbed what surely had to be a nose, Millie moved forward again as amusement bubbled up inside her. “How absolutely brilliant!” she exclaimed as she stopped right next to the fountain, earning a smile from little James, his teeth looking remarkably bright against the mud he’d used to cover his face. The blob next to him, six-year-old Edith, rose to her feet and let out a dramatic sigh. “Mother ruined everything by pointing us out to you.” She pulled a lily pad from her arm and dropped it into the shallow water pooling in the bottom of the fountain. “It’s a good thing she did point me in the right direction, or I could have been searching for the two of you for hours.” Millie grinned. “I’ve played many a game of hide-and-seek, and yet I’ve never seen children use such inventive means to disguise themselves. It was completely ingenious—which means clever, by the way—to choose the fountain to hide in.” “It was nothing of the sort,” Mrs. Cutling argued, marching up to join them, apparently unimpressed with Millie’s attempt at broadening the children’s vocabulary. She leveled a stern look at her children before turning her disapproval on Millie. “I’m holding you responsible for their current condition.” “It wasn’t Miss Longfellow’s fault, Mother,” James hurried to say. “It was my idea to hide here, so you shouldn’t be cross with her.” “And it’s been great fun,” Edith added. Mrs. Cutling drew herself up. “I see nothing fun about this, Edith. In fact, you and your brother have embarrassed me no small amount this afternoon. Because of that, the two of you will be spending the rest of your day in your rooms—after you bathe, of course—contemplating the ridiculousness of your actions.” She pointed a finger to the dry courtyard. “Both of you . . . out . . . now.” Millie watched as the two children scrambled out of the fountain, lily pads and slime dripping off them, which earned them a thinning of the lips from their mother. They sent Millie pitiful looks that clearly begged for help, but then two sets of little shoulders sagged when it evidently became clear Millie had no help to offer them. A ~ Jen Turano,
1320:Heartened up by this story, I began to draw upon his more comprehensive knowledge as to the ages of the pictures and as to certain of the stories connected with them, upon which I was not clear; and I likewise inquired into the causes of the decadence of the present age, in which the most refined arts had perished, and among them painting, which had not left even the faintest trace of itself behind. "Greed of money," he replied, "has brought about these unaccountable changes. In the good old times, when virtue was her own reward, the fine arts flourished, and there was the keenest rivalry among men for fear that anything which could be of benefit to future generations should remain long undiscovered. Then it was that Democritus expressed the juices of all plants and spent his whole life in experiments, in order that no curative property should lurk unknown in stone or shrub. That he might understand the movements of heaven and the stars, Eudoxus grew old upon the summit of a lofty mountain: three times did Chrysippus purge his brain with hellebore, that his faculties might be equal to invention. Turn to the sculptors if you will; Lysippus perished from hunger while in profound meditation upon the lines of a single statue, and Myron, who almost embodied the souls of men and beasts in bronze, could not find an heir. And we, sodden with wine and women, cannot even appreciate the arts already practiced, we only criticise the past! We learn only vice, and teach it, too. What has become of logic? of astronomy? Where is the exquisite road to wisdom? Who even goes into a temple to make a vow, that he may achieve eloquence or bathe in the fountain of wisdom? And they do not pray for good health and a sound mind; before they even set foot upon the threshold of the temple, one promises a gift if only he may bury a rich relative; another, if he can but dig up a treasure, and still another, if he is permitted to amass thirty millions of sesterces in safety! The Senate itself, the exponent of all that should be right and just, is in the habit of promising a thousand pounds of gold to the capitol, and that no one may question the propriety of praying for money, it even decorates Jupiter himself with spoils'. Do not hesitate, therefore, at expressing your surprise at the deterioration of painting, since, by all the gods and men alike, a lump of gold is held to be more beautiful than anything ever created by those crazy little Greek fellows, Apelles and Phydias! ~ Petronius,
1321:and is quoted as saying:
~ Bruce Beaver



is one of Australia's greatest and most magical poets. I have
been carrying his book Charmed Lives(UQP) around in my bag like an amulet. His
poetry is pungent, discursive, feral, disturbing, wise and very funny. Charmed
Lives is out of print. It shouldn't be.

Cat Lady
Outside the cathedral at five
the cats congregated and I was fulfilled
feeding them. I would shuffle
in my modest skirt and tatty shawl
towards the drinking fountain, its base
sprayed with the territorial signatures
of toms warmed by the effusions
of tabbies. The air charmed by a broken
mewing, the cheap scraps replaced
by a glottal monotone of purring —
my poor ones — so many types
of the single need. So many desperate
appetites. An insane male
human once accosted me
and asked why didn’t I think of the starving
children in South East Asia, Western Africa.
I said what if I did?
What good would it do them?
He jumped up and down and tried to kick
my cats. I am known as the Cat Lady
and not the patron saint of the world’s
starving, or this city’s.
It’s all because the sexes cannot
cease from procreating. I saw
on the television frogs copulating
in their green myriads. Sometimes the female
would die underneath the onslaught
but another male would mount her dead
body. In the park the other
day I watched a sick pigeon
collapse beneath the weight of another
then with her last life surge
somersault backwards and lie dead
while the male moved on uninterruptedly
pecking towards another breeding bird
I have no argument with people in other ways;
I move among them in no deliberate disguise
I am no cleaner than my cats. It is
my work to feed them, not to breed them.
Nobody else will help to keep them alive.
Every epochal now and then
I know who I am actually. I think
I know who I was in a personal sense. I recreate
thoughts of the past under the shade
of the cathedral’s walls.
I think merely of our breathing sanely together.
Only not here, not in this sometime city
of madmen and deprived cats,
where values are all equated with money
and the highest prayer is for power.
I have no prescriptions, interpretations, prophecies.
With no comment other than Share
I waddle towards my first three thousand years.
~ Bruce Beaver,
1322:Ceremony After A Fire Raid
Myselves
The grievers
Grieve
Among the street burned to tireless death
A child of a few hours
With its kneading mouth
Charred on the black breast of the grave
The mother dug, and its arms full of fires.
Begin
With singing
Sing
Darkness kindled back into beginning
When the caught tongue nodded blind,
A star was broken
Into the centuries of the child
Myselves grieve now, and miracles cannot atone.
Forgive
Us forgive
Us your death that myselves the believers
May hold it in a great flood
Till the blood shall spurt,
And the dust shall sing like a bird
As the grains blow, as your death grows, through our heart.
Crying
Your dying
Cry,
Child beyond cockcrow, by the fire-dwarfed
Street we chant the flying sea
In the body bereft.
Love is the last light spoken. Oh
Seed of sons in the loin of the black husk left.
II
50
I know not whether
Adam or Eve, the adorned holy bullock
Or the white ewe lamb
Or the chosen virgin
Laid in her snow
On the altar of London,
Was the first to die
In the cinder of the little skull,
O bride and bride groom
O Adam and Eve together
Lying in the lull
Under the sad breast of the head stone
White as the skeleton
Of the garden of Eden.
I know the legend
Of Adam and Eve is never for a second
Silent in my service
Over the dead infants
Over the one
Child who was priest and servants,
Word, singers, and tongue
In the cinder of the little skull,
Who was the serpent's
Night fall and the fruit like a sun,
Man and woman undone,
Beginning crumbled back to darkness
Bare as nurseries
Of the garden of wilderness.
III
Into the organpipes and steeples
Of the luminous cathedrals,
Into the weathercocks' molten mouths
Rippling in twelve-winded circles,
Into the dead clock burning the hour
Over the urn of sabbaths
Over the whirling ditch of daybreak
Over the sun's hovel and the slum of fire
51
And the golden pavements laid in requiems,
Into the bread in a wheatfield of flames,
Into the wine burning like brandy,
The masses of the sea
The masses of the sea under
The masses of the infant-bearing sea
Erupt, fountain, and enter to utter for ever
Glory glory glory
The sundering ultimate kingdom of genesis' thunder.
~ Dylan Thomas,
1323:/Farsi & Turkish With every breath the sound of love surrounds us, and we are bound for the depths of space, without distraction. We've been in orbit before and know the angels there. Let's go there again, Master, for that is our land. Yet we are beyond all of that and more than angels. Out beyond duality, we have a home, and it is Majesty. That pure substance is different from this dusty world. What kind of place is this? We once came down; soon we'll return. A new happiness befriends us as we work at offering our lives. Muhammad, the jewel of the world, is our caravan's chosen guide. The sweetness we breathe on the wind is from the scent of his hair, and the radiance of our thought is from the light of his day. His face once caused the moon to split in two. She couldn't endure the sight of him. Yet how lucky she was, she who humbly received him. Look into your heart and see the splitting moon within each breath. Having seen that vision, how can you still dream? When the wave of "Am I not?" struck, it wrecked the body's ship; when the ship wrecks again, it will be the time of union. The Human Being, like a bird of the sea, emerged from the ocean of the soul. Earth is not the final place of rest for a bird born from the sea. No, we are pearls of that ocean; all of us live in it; and if it weren't so, why would wave upon wave arrive? This is the time of union, the time of eternal beauty. It is the time of luck and kindness; it is the ocean of purity. The wave of bestowal has come. The roar of the sea is here. The morning of happiness has dawned. No, it is the light of God. Whose face is pictured here? Who is this shah or prince? Who is this ancient intelligence? They are all masks . . . and the only remedy is this boiling ecstasy of the soul. A fountain of refreshment is in the head and the eyes -- not this bodily head but another pure spiritual one. Many a pure head has been spilled in the dust. Know the one from the other! Our original head is hidden, while this other is visible. Beyond this world is a world that has no boundaries. Put your water skin away, brother, and draw some wine from our cask! The clay jug of perception has such a narrow spout. The sun appeared from the direction of Tabriz, and I said, "This light is at once joined with all things, and yet apart from everything." [2295.jpg] -- from Love is a Stranger: Selected Lyric Poetry by Jelaluddin Rumi and Kabir, Translated by Kabir Helmiski

~ Jalaluddin Rumi, A World with No Boundaries (Ghazal 363)
,
1324:Blue
The earth again like a ship steams out of the dark sea over
The edge of the blue, and the sun stands up to see us glide
Slowly into another day; slowly the rover
Vessel of darkness takes the rising tide.
I, on the deck, am startled by this dawn confronting
Me who am issued amazed from the darkness, stripped
And quailing here in the sunshine, delivered from haunting
The night unsounded whereon our days are shipped.
Feeling myself undawning, the day’s light playing upon me,
I who am substance of shadow, I all compact
Of the stuff of the night, finding myself all wrongly
Among the crowds of things in the sunshine jostled and racked.
I with the night on my lips, I sigh with the silence of death;
And what do I care though the very stones should cry me unreal, though the
clouds
Shine in conceit of substance upon me, who am less than the rain.
Do I know the darkness within them? What are they but shrouds?
The clouds go down the sky with a wealthy ease
Casting a shadow of scorn upon me for my share in death; but I
Hold my own in the midst of them, darkling, defy
The whole of the day to extinguish the shadow I lift on the breeze.
Yea, though the very clouds have vantage over me,
Enjoying their glancing flight, though my love is dead,
I still am not homeless here, I’ve a tent by day
Of darkness where she sleeps on her perfect bed.
And I know the host, the minute sparkling of darkness
Which vibrates untouched and virile through the grandeur of night,
But which, when dawn crows challenge, assaulting the vivid motes
Of living darkness, bursts fretfully, and is bright:
Runs like a fretted arc-lamp into light,
Stirred by conflict to shining, which else
Were dark and whole with the night.
30
Runs to a fret of speed like a racing wheel,
Which else were aslumber along with the whole
Of the dark, swinging rhythmic instead of a-reel.
Is chafed to anger, bursts into rage like thunder;
Which else were a silent grasp that held the heavens
Arrested, beating thick with wonder.
Leaps like a fountain of blue sparks leaping
In a jet from out of obscurity,
Which erst was darkness sleeping.
Runs into streams of bright blue drops,
Water and stones and stars, and myriads
Of twin-blue eyes, and crops
Of floury grain, and all the hosts of day,
All lovely hosts of ripples caused by fretting
The Darkness into play.
~ David Herbert Lawrence,
1325:Fig-tree, for such a long time I have found meaning
in the way you almost completely omit your blossoms
and urge your pure mystery, unproclaimed,
into the early ripening fruit.
Like a curved pipe of a fountain, your arching boughs drive the sap
downward and up again: and almost without awakening
it bursts out of sleep, into its sweetest achievement.
Like the god stepping into the swan.

......But we still linger, alas,
we, whose pride is in blossoming; we enter the overdue
interior of our final fruit and are already betrayed.
In only a few does the urge to action rise up
so powerfully the they stop, glowing in their heart's abundance,
while, like the soft night air , the temptation to blossom
touches their tender mouths, touches their eyelids, softly:
heroes perhaps, and those chosen to disappear early,
whose veins Death the gardener twists into a different pattern.
These plunge on ahead: in advance of their own smile
like the team of galloping horses before the triumphant
pharaoh in the mildly hollowed reliefs at Karnak.

The hero is strangely close to those who died young. Permanence
does not concern him. He lives in continual ascent,
moving on into the ever-changed constellation
of perpetual danger. Few could find him there. But
Fate, which is silent about us, suddenly grows inspired
and sings him into the storm of his onrushing world.
I hear no one like him. All at once I am pierced
by his darkened voice, carried on the streaming air.

Then how gladly I would hide from the longing to be once again
oh a boy once again, with my life before me, to sit
leaning on future arms and reading of Samson,
how from his mother first nothing, then everything, was born.

Wasn't he a hero inside you mother? didn't
his imperious choosing already begin there, in you?
Thousands seethed in your womb, wanting to be him,
but look: he grasped and excluded—, chose and prevailed.
And if he demolished pillars, it was when he burst
from the world of your body into the narrower world, where again
he chose and prevailed. O mothers of heroes, O sources
of ravaging floods! You ravines into which
virgins have plunged, lamenting,
from the highest rim of the heart, sacrifices to the son.
For whenever the hero stormed through the stations of love,
each heartbeat intended for him lifted him up, beyond it;
and, turning away, he stood there, at the end of all smiles,—transfigured. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,
1326:Drat. Daisy pulled back with a frown. She felt guilty that she had enjoyed the kiss so little. And it made her feel even worse when it appeared Llandrindon had enjoyed it quite a lot.
“My dear Miss Bowman,” Llandrindon murmured flirtatiously. “You didn’t tell me you tasted so sweet.”
He reached for her again, and Daisy danced backward with a little yelp. “My lord, control yourself!”
“I cannot.” He pursued her slowly around the fountain until they resembled a pair of circling cats. Suddenly he made a dash for her, catching at the sleeve of her gown. Daisy pushed hard at him and twisted away, feeling the soft white muslin rip an inch or two at the shoulder seam.
There was a loud splash and a splatter of water drops.
Daisy stood blinking at the empty spot where Llandrindon had been, and then covered her eyes with her hands as if that would somehow make the entire situation go away.
“My lord?” she asked gingerly. “Did you… did you just fall into the fountain?”
“No,” came his sour reply. “You pushed me into the fountain.”
“It was entirely unintentional, I assure you.” Daisy forced herself to look at him.
Llandrindon rose to his feet, water streaming from his hair and clothes, his coat pockets filled to the brim. It appeared the dip in the fountain had cooled his passions considerably.
He glowered at her in affronted silence. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he reached into one of his water-laden coat pockets. A tiny frog leaped from the pocket and returned to the fountain with a quiet plunk.
Daisy tried to choke back her amusement, but the harder she tried the worse it became, until she finally burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth, while irrepressible giggles slipped out. “I’m so— oh dear—” And she bent over laughing until tears came to her eyes.
The tension between them disappeared as Llandrin don began to smile reluctantly. He stepped from the fountain, dripping from every surface. “I believe when you kiss the toad,” he said dryly, “he is supposed to turn into a prince. Unfortunately in my case it doesn’t seem to have worked.”
Daisy felt a rush of sympathy and kindness, even as she snorted with a few last giggles. Approaching him carefully, she placed her small hands on either side of his wet face and pressed a friendly, fleeting kiss on his lips.
His eyes widened at the gesture.
“You are someone’s handsome prince,” Daisy said, smiling at him apologetically. “Just not mine. But when the right woman finds you… how lucky she’ll be. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
1327:We didn't finish that dance."
"Here?"
"Why not?"
Echo's high heel tapped against the sidewalk, the telltale sign of nerves. I took a deliberate step forward and caught her waist before she coud back away from me. My siren had sung to me for way too long, capturing my heart, tempting me with her body, driving me slowly insane. Now, I expected her to pay up.
"Do you hear that?" I aked.
Echo raised an eyebrow when she heard nothing but the sound of water trickling in the fountain. "Hear what?"
I slid my right hand down her arm, cradled her hand against my chest and swayed us from side to side. "The music."
Her eyes danced. "Maybe if you could tell me what i'm supposed to be hearing."
"Slow drum beat." With one finger i tapped the beat into the small of her back. "Acoustic quitar." I leaned down and hummed my favorite song in her ear. Her sweet cinnamon smell intoxicated me.
She relaxed, fitting perfectly into my body. In the crisp, cold February air, we swayed together, moving to our own personal beat. For one moment, we escaped hell. No teachers, no therapist, no well-meaning friends, no nightmares-just the two of us, dancing.
My song ended, my finger stopped tapping the beat, and we ceased swaying from side to side. She held perfectly still, keeping her hand in mine, her head resting on my shoulder. I nuzzled into the warmth of her silky curls, tightening my hold on her. Echo was becoming essential, like air.
I eased my hand to her chin, lifting her face toward me. My thumb caressed her warm, smooth cheek. My heart beat faster.
A ghost of that siren smile graced her lips as she tilted her head closer to mine, creating the undeniable pull of the sailor lost to the sea to the beautiful goddess calling him home.
I kissed her lips. Soft, full, warm-everything i'd fantasized it would be and more, so much more. Echo hesitantly pressed back, a curious question for which i had a response. I parted my lips and teased her bottom one, begging, praying, for permission. Her smooth hands inched up my neck and pulled at my hair, bringing me closer.
She opened her mouth, her tongue seductively touching mine, almost bringing me to my knees. Flames licked through me as our kiss deepened. Her hands massaged my scalp and neck, only stoking the heat of the fire.
Forgetting every rule i'd created for this moment, my hands wandered up her back, twining in her hair, bringing her closer to me. I wanted Echo. I needed Echo.
Her eyes met mine again. "So what does this mean for us?"
I lowered my forehead to hers. "It means you 're mine. ~ Katie McGarry,
1328:28. Experts Should Be On Tap, Not On Top

This is another piece of advice from Winston Churchill (he was a fountain of great one-liners):

Experts should be on tap, not on top.

I have made the mistake all too often in the past of taking experts’ advice as gold, as the only ‘right’ option. It has often been against my instinct, and it has all too frequently landed me in trouble.

To let yourself be guided purely by experts is always a recipe for disaster.

So-called experts might know their field, but they don’t always know the whole picture of what’s right. Especially for you.

I know some very wealthy people who don’t even live where they want to because their accountant told them they could pay less tax if they bought a home in Monaco. It is as if their accountant has more of a say over their lives than their kids or partners do - and that is always a ‘false’ economy.

Experts are experts because they specialize in one small part of a field. A leader’s job is to see beyond that, to see the whole picture and then to make a considered decision. The expert advice should be there to serve you: to be ‘on tap’, when you need it, but not as your only option.

So when you need guidance, ‘listen’ to all the experts, assemble the knowledge in your head, sleep on it, trust your instinct (more of that later!), then make an informed, not hasty decision.

By the way, the only thing worse than making a bad decision? Making no decision! So many people fail to get ahead because they can’t decide. They dither.

It is natural. We all get fearful of making a bad decision - but really that is back to being scared of failing, and we know how to deal with that now, don’t we?

Failing is OK. A bad decision is better than no decision.

So learn to make decisions - informed, good decisions, based on good advice, but not dictated solely by the advisors. Trust your instincts, and commit to your decision.

And if it proves wrong, then learn from the error, have the humility to acknowledge it, then move on - wiser and smarter.

And remember, like so many things, the more you practice making decisions, the better you will become at making good decisions.

You’ll never have a 100 per cent gold strike rate, but some people get pretty darned close, and if you study their habits I bet you will see some clear patterns in their decision-making.

So, listen to the experts, keep them on tap, but know your own mind, know your own heart - and let these lead you to the right choices to keep you on top. ~ Bear Grylls,
1329:At the unexpected sight of Spence, Colbie startled hard. How was it that he was the one who needed glasses and yet she’d not seen him standing against the window? “No, I don’t kill a lot of people,” she said cautiously because she was wearing only a towelin front of a strange man. “But I’m happy to make an exception.”
He laughed, a rough rumble that was more than a little contagious but she controlled herself because, hello, she was once again dripping wet before the man who seemed to make her knees forget to hold her up.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said and pushed off the wall to come close.
She froze, but he held up his hands like, I c