Tired Quotes (page 7)
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What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since everyone hath every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you.
On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new.
Speak of the spring and foison of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear,
And you in every blessd shape we know.
In all...
William Shakespeare
Men: they are what they are and women have to accept that and try to shift around them. Especially men with power. Money. The upper hand. The raised hand. Momma`s philosophy. Here`s to you, Momma. She raised the empty cup. What`s the use of fighting them. What`s the use. To struggle, to live in anger takes everything out of you, drains you, makes people hate you and what`s the use? You get nothing you want, all you get is tired.
Marilyn French
When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.
Fernando Pessoa
Unto my Books-so good to turn-Far ends of tired Days-It half endears the Abstinence-And Pain-is missed-in Praise-As Flavors-cheer Retarded Guests. With Banquettings to be-So Spices-stimulate the time. Till my small Library-It may be Wilderness-without-Far feet of failing Men-But Holiday-excludes the night-And it is Bells-within-I thank these Kinsmen of the Shelf-Their Countenances Kid. Enamor-in Prospective-And satisfy-obtained-
Emily Dickinson
The air was cold to the lungs, the long grass dripping wet, and the herbs on it gave out their spiced astringent scent. In a little while on all sides the Cicada would begin to sing. The grass was me , and the air, the distant invisible mountains were me, the tired oxen were me. I breathed with the slight night-wind in the thorn trees.
Isak Dinesen
Bees buzzed in the bean blossoms. And the sun beat down on the upturned shell of Om. There is also a hell for tortoises. He was too tired to waggle his That was all you could do, waggle your legs. And stick your head out as far as it would go and wave it about in the hope that you could lever yourself over.
Terry Prachett
Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, “and what is the use of a book,” thought Alice, “without pictures or conversation?
Lewis Carroll