Lark Quotes (displaying: 1 - 30 of 58 quotes )
HEADMASTER: I was a geographer. I went to Hull. IRWIN: Oh. Larkin. HEADMASTER: Everybody says that. 'Hull? Oh, Larkin.' I don't know about the poetry... as I say, I was a geographer... but as a librarian he was pitiless. The Himmler of the Accessions Desk. And now, we're told, women in droves. Art. They get away with murder.
Dear Mr Larkin, I expect you think it's jolly cheeky for a schoolgirl to -Dear Dr Larkin, My freind [sic] and I had an argument as to which of us has the biggest breasts and we wondered if you would act as - My youngest, she's fourteen and quite absurdly stuck on your poems - but then she's advanced in all ways - refuses to wear a -
INEZ: There... you know the way the catch larks - with a mirror? I'm your lark-mirror, my dear, and you can't escape me... There isn't any pimple, not a trace of one. So what about it? Suppose the mirror started telling lies? Or suppose I covered my eyes - as he is doing - and refused to look at you, all that loveliness of yours would be wasted on the desert air. No, don't be afraid, I can't help looking at you. I shan't turn my eyes away. AndI'll be nice to you, ever so nice. Only you must be nice to me too.
And now the old story has begun to write itself over there," said Carl softly. "Isn’t it queer: there are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before; like the larks in this country, that have been singing the same five notes for thousands of years.
What's this flesh? A little cruded milk. Fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies are weaker than those. Paper prisons boys use to keep flies in; more contemptible, Since our is to preserve earth-worms. Didst thou ever seen A lark in a cage? Such is the soul in the body: this world. Is like her little turf of grass, and the heaven o'er our heads Like her looking-glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge Of the small compass of our prison.
Once, on a walk by a river- Eskdale in low reddish sunlight, with a dusting of snow- his daughter quoted to him an opening verse by her favourite poet. Apparently, not many young women loved Phillip Larkin the way she did. 'If I were to construct a religion/ I should make use of water.' She said she liked the laconic use of 'called in'- as if he would be, as if anyone ever is. They stopped to drink coffee from a flask, and Perowne, tracing a line of lichen with a finger, said that if he ever got the call, he'd make us of evolution. What better creation myth? An unimaginable sweep of time, numberless generations spawning by infinitesimal steps complex living beauty out of inert matter, driven on by the blind furies of random mutation, natural selection and environmental change, with the tragedy of forms continually dying, and lately the wonder of minds emerging and with them morality, love, art, cities- and the unprecedented bonus of this story happening to be demonstrably true.
There is a legend about a bird which sings only once in it's life, more beautifully than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves it's nest, it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, it impales it's breast on the longest, sharpest thorn. But as it is dying, it rises above it's own agony to outsing the Lark and the Nightingale. The Thornbird pays it's life for that one song, and the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles, as it's best is brought only at the cost of great pain; Driven to the thorn with no knowledge of the dying to come. But when we press the thorn to our breast, we know, we understand.... and still, we do it." ~ Colleen McCullough
When you walk through the storm, hold your head high. And don't be afraid of the dark! At the end of the storm is a golden sky. And the sweet song of the lark. Walk on through the wind. Walk on through the rain. Though your dreams be tossed & blown. Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart. And you'll never walk alone!
I did not think I should be ever loved: do you indeed Love me so much as now you say you do? Ask of the sea-bird if it loves the sea, Ask of the roses if they love the rain, Ask of the little lark, that will not sing Till day break, if it loves to see the day: And yet, these are but empty images, Mere shadows of my love, which is a fire So great that all the waters of the main Can not avail to quench it.
The embrace of present and past time, in which English antiquarianism becomes a form of alchemy, engenders a strange timelessness. It is as if the little bird which flew through the Anglo-Saxon banqueting hall, in Bede's Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, gained the outer air and became the lark ascending in Vaughan Williams's orchestral setting. The unbroken chain is that of English music itself.
I could do without my warhorse; I could drag about in a skirt; I could let the banners and the trumpets and the knights and soldiers pass me and leave me behind as they leave the other women, if only I could still hear the wind in the trees, the larks in the sunshine, the young lambs crying through the healthy frost, and the blessed blessed church bells that send my angel voices floating to me on the wind. But without these things I cannot live; and by your wanting to take them away from me, or from any human creature, I know that your counsel is of the devil, and that mine is of God.
He didn’t know if that was really true or not, but he discovered something which was tremendously liberating: he didn’t care. He was very tired of thinking and thinking and still not knowing. He was also tired of being frightened, like a man who has entered a cave on a lark and now begins to suspect he is lost. Stop thinking about it, then. That’s the solution.
Evading all the boredom, all the vast chagrin / That load their heaviness upon this fog-bound life, / Happy is he who on a stalwart wing can knife / Across the haze to meadows shining and serene! Happy is he whose thoughts soar like the lark to sing, / As through the morning skies, in freedom, he ascends, / - Who, gazing down on life, completely comprehends / The language of the flowers and every speechless thing!
Though there was nothing very airy about Miss Murdstone, she was a perfect Lark in point of getting up. She was up (and, as I believe to this hour, looking for that man) before anybody in the house was stirring. Peggotty gave it as her opinion that she even slept with one eye open; but I could not concur in this idea; for I tried it myself after hearing the suggestion thrown out, and found it couldn’t be done.
She bounded before me, and returned to my side, and was off again like a young greyhound; and, at first, I found plenty of entertaiment in listening to the larks singing far and near; and enjoying the sweet, warm sunshine; and watching her, my pet, and my delight, with her golden ringlets flying loose behind, and her bright cheek, as soft and pure in its bloom, as a wild rose, and her eyes radiant with cloudless pleasure. She was a happy creautre, and an angel in those those days. It is a pity she could not stay content.
You are the mountain, you are the rock You are the cord and you’re the spark You are the eagle, you are the lark You are the world and you’re remarkable You’re the ocean eating the shore You are the calm inside the storm You’re every emotion, you can endure You are the world and the world is yours. ((The World as I See It))
There's a story... a legend, about a bird that sings just once in its life. From the moment it leaves its nest, it searches for a thorn tree... and never rests until it's found one. And then it sings... more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing, it impales itself on the longest, sharpest thorn. But, as it dies, it rises above its own agony, to outsing the lark and the nightingale. The thorn bird pays its life for just one song, but the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow. Between the crosses, row on row. That mark our place; and in the sky. The larks, still bravely singing, fly. Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago. We lived, felt dawn saw sunset glow. Loved and were loved, and now we lie. In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe; To you, from falling hands we throw. The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die. We shall not sleep, though poppies grow. In Flanders fields.
SONNET 29When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings. That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
MCMXIVThose long uneven lines. Standing as patiently. As if they were stretched outside. The Oval or Villa Park, The crowns of hats, the sun. On moustached archaic faces. Grinning as if it were all. An August Bank Holiday lark; And the shut shops, the bleached. Established names on the sunblinds, The farthings and sovereigns, And dark-clothed children at play. Called after kings and queens, The tin advertisements. For cocoa and twist, and the pubs. Wide open all day--And the countryside not caring: The place names all hazed over. With flowering grasses, and fields. Shadowing Domesday lines. Under wheat's restless silence; The differently-dressed servants. With tiny rooms in huge houses, The dust behind limousines; Never such innocence, Never before or since, As changed itself to past. Without a word--the men. Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousands of marriages, Lasting a little while longer: Never such innocence again.
There has fallen a splendid tear. From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate. The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"And the lily whispers, "I wait."She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead, Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.