Quicken Quotes (displaying: 1 - 30 of 52 quotes )
If. If your hand came, dead in the dead of night, And touched my forehead, waking me to see. You standing dead there in the dead of night, I who fear ghosts would have no fear at all. I'd greet you with the tenderest hello. And you would smile, though sad. And then you'd go. There would be nothing deathly in your death. For your love always was the laughing sort. That quickened life and would not die with death. And when you'd gone, I would not want to weep -- That loving gaiety would still be there. Filling with its own peace the quickened air.
In this brief transit where the dreams cross. The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things. From the wide window towards the granite shore. The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying. Unbroken wings And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices. In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices. And the weak spirit quickens to rebel. For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell. Quickens to recover. The cry of quail and the whirling plover. And the blind eye creates. The empty forms between the ivory gates. And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth 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.
But what after all is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the wave. Night, however, succeeds to night. The winter holds a pack of them in store and deals them equally, evenly, with indefatigable fingers. They lengthen; they darken. Some of them hold aloft clear planets, plates of brightness. The autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages describe death in battle and how bones bleach and burn far away in Indian sands. The autumns trees gleam in the yellow moonlight, in the light of harvest moons, the light which mellows the energy of labour, and smooths the stubble, and brings the wave lapping blue to the shore.
All through it, I have known myself to be quite undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire- a fire, however, inseparable in its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no service, idly burning away.
Look at the four-spaced year. That imitates four seasons of our lives; First Spring, that delicate season, bright with flowers, Quickening, yet shy, and like a milk-fed child, Its way unsteady while the countryman. Delights in promise of another year. Green meadows wake to bloom, frail shoots and grasses, And then Spring turns to Summer's hardiness, The boy to manhood. There's no time of year. Of greater richness, warmth, and love of living, New strength untried. And after Summer, Autumn, First flushes gone, the temperate season here. Midway between quick youth and growing age, And grey hair glinting when the head turns toward us, Then senile Winter, bald or with white hair, Terror in palsy as he walks alone.
The truth is, in order to heal we need to tell our stories and have them witnessed... The story itself becomes a vessel that holds us up, that sustains, that allows us to order our jumbled experiences into meaning. As I told my stories of fear, awakening, struggle, and transformation and had them received, heard, and validated by other women, I found healing. I also needed to hear other women's stories in order to see and embrace my own. Sometimes another woman's story becomes a mirror that shows me a self I haven't seen before. When I listen to her tell it, her experience quickens and clarifies my own. Her questions rouse mine. Her conflicts illumine my conflicts. Her resolutions call forth my hope. Her strengths summon my strengths. All of this can happen even when our stories and our lives are very different.
But the Lady Amalthea and Prince Lir walked and spoke and sang together as blithely as though King Haggard's castle had become a green wood, wild and shadowy with spring. They climbed the crooked towers like hills, picnicked in stone meadows under a stone sky, and splashed up and down stairways that had softened and quickened into streams.
His conviction of having no purpose in life other than to act as a distillation of poison was part of the ego of an eighteen-year-old. He had resolved that his beautiful white hands would never be soiled or calloused. He wanted to be like a pennant, dependent on each gusting wind. The only thing that seemed valid to him was to live for the emotions--gratuitous and unstable, dying only to quicken again, dwindling and flaring without direction or purpose.
It does not answer the aim which God had in this institution, merely for men to have good commentaries and expositions on the Scripture, and other good books of divinity; because, although these may tend, as well as preaching, to give a good doctrinal or speculative understanding of the word of God, yet they have not an equal tendency to impress them on men's hearts and affections. God hath appointed a particular and lively application of his word, in the preaching of it, as a fit means to affect sinners with the importance of religion, their own misery, the necessity of a remedy, and the glory and sufficiency of a remedy provided; to stir up the pure minds of the saints, quicken their affections by often bringing the great things of religion in their remembrance, and setting them in their proper colours, though they know them, and have been fully instructed in them already.
To whom I owe the leaping delight. That quickens my senses in our wakingtime. And the rhythm that governs the repose of our sleepingtime, the breathing in unison. Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other. Who think the same thoughts without need of speech, And babble the same speech without need of meaning... No peevish winter wind shall chill. No sullen tropic sun shall wither. The roses in the rose-garden which is ours and ours only. But this dedication is for others to read: These are private words addressed to you in public.
Oh teach the mind t' aetherial heights to rise, And view familiar, in its native skies, Thy source of good; thy splendor to descry, And on thy self, undazled, fix her eye. Oh quicken this dull mass of mortal clay; Shine through the soul, and drive its clouds away! For thou art Light. In thee the righteous find. Calm rest, and soft serenity of mind; Thee they regard alone; to thee they tend; At once our great original and end, At once our means, our end, our guide, our way, Our utmost bound, and our eternal stay!
Men and women who turn their lives over to God will find out that he can make a lot more out of their lives than they can. He will deepen their joys, expand their vision, quicken their minds, strengthen their muscles, lift their spirits, multiply their blessings, increase their opportunities, comfort their souls, raise up friends, and pour our peace. Whoever will lose his life in God will find he has eternal life.
Men and women who turn their lives over to God will discover that He can make a lot more out of their lives than they can. He can deepen their joys, expand their vision, quicken their minds, strengthen their muscles, lift their spirits, multiply their blessings, increase their opportunities, comfort their soals, and pour out peace.
I believed in the existence of other and more vivid kinds of goodness, and what I believed in I wished to behold. Who blames me? Many, no doubt: and I shall be called discontented. I could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of the third story, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the spot, and allow my mind’s eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before it—and, certainly, they were many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement, which, while it swelled it in trouble, expanded it with life; and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended—a tale my imagination created, and narrated continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual existence.
It was toffee; they were advertising toffee, a nursemaid told Rezia. Together they spell t...o...f..."K...R..." said the nursemaid, and Septimus heard her say "Kay Arr" close to his ear, deeply, softly, like a mellow organ, but with a roughness in her voice like a grasshopper's, which rasped his spine deliciously and sent running up into his brain waves of sound which, concussing, broke. A marvellous discovery indeed - that the human voice in certain atmospheric conditions (for one must be scientific, above all scientific) can quicken trees into life!
And all at once the heavy night. Fell from my eyes and I could see, --A drenched and dripping apple-tree, A last long line of silver rain, A sky grown clear and blue again. And as I looked a quickening gust. Of wind blew up to me and thrust. Into my face a miracle. Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, --I know not how such things can be! --I breathed my soul back into me. Ah! Up then from the ground sprang IAnd hailed the earth with such a cry. As is not heard save from a man. Who has been dead, and lives again. About the trees my arms I wound; Like one gone mad I hugged the ground; I raised my quivering arms on high; I laughed and laughed into the sky
There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique, and if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium; and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, not how it compares with other expression. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is on a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.