Weary Quotes - Page 23

• How beautiful it is for a man to die
  Upon the walls of Zion! to be called
  Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel,
  To put his armour off, and rest in heaven!

  Nathaniel Parker Willis

  Beautiful, Death, Wall

  Nathaniel Parker Willis (1868). “The Poems: Sacred, Passionate, and Humorous”, p.110

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• I'm weary of my lonely but
  And of its blasted tree,
  The very lake is like my lot,
  So silent constantly--
  I've liv'd amid the forest gloom
  Until I almost fear--
  When will the thrilling voices come
  My spirit thirsts to hear?

  Nathaniel Parker Willis

  Country, Lonely, Voice

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• The weary August days are long;
  The locusts sing a plaintive song,
  The cattle miss their master's call
  When they see the sunset shadows fall.

  Edmund Clarence Stedman

  Summer, Song, Fall

  Edmund Clarence Stedman (1869). “Alice of Monmouth: An Idyl of the Great War : with Other Poems”, p.47

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• Not thine the sorrow, but ours, sainted soul! Thou hast indeed entered into the promised land, while we are yet on the march. To us remain the rocking of the deep, the storm upon the land, days of duty and nights of watching; but thou are sphered high above all darkness and fear, beyond all sorrow and weariness. Rest, oh, weary heart!

  Henry Ward Beecher

  Heart, Night, Land

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• The Southern newspapers, with their advertisements of negro sales and personal descriptions of fugitive slaves, supply details of misery that it would be difficult for imagination to exceed. Scorn, derision, insult, menace - the handcuff, the last - the tearing away of children from parents, of husbands from wives - the weary trudging in droves along the common highways, the labor of body, the despair of mind, the sickness of heart - these are the realities which belong to the system, and form the rule, rather that the exception, in the slave's experience.

  Fanny Kemble

  Husband, Children, Heart

  Fanny Kemble (1961). “Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation in 1838-1839”, p.6, University of Georgia Press

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• A true home is one of the most sacred of places. It is a sanctuary into which men flee from the world's perils and alarms. It is a resting-place to which at close of day the weary retire to gather new strength for the battle and toils of tomorrow. It is the place where love learns its lessons, where life is schooled into discipline and strength, where character is molded.

  J.R. Miller

  Home, Character, Men

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• You will do very well to refuse offices; for a man seldom fails to give offense in them. It ought to weary you simply to hear them mentioned.

  St. Catherine of Siena

  Men, Giving, Office

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• My father had put these things on the table. I looked at him standing by the sink. He was washing his hands, splashing water on his face. My mamma left us. My brother, too. And now my feckless, reckless uncle had as well. My pa stayed, though. My pa always stayed. I looked at him. And saw the sweat stains on his shirt. And his big, scarred hands. And his dirty, weary face. I remembered how, lying in my bed a few nights before, I had looked forward to showing him my uncle's money. To telling him I was leaving. And I was so ashamed.

  Jennifer Donnelly

  Brother, Uncles, Father

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• The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary,
  And I am near to fall, infirm and weary.

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  Fall, Sunshine, Shadow

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (2008). “Michael Angelo and Translations”, p.353, Wildside Press LLC

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• A fly is a very light burden; but if it were perpetually to return and settle on one's nose, it might weary us of our very lives.

  Fredrika Bremer

  Light, Noses, Might

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• Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed;Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  Wall, Lying, Heart

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1861). “The poetical works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, including his translations and notes”, p.40

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• Little Words When you are gone, there is nor bloom nor leaf, Nor singing sea at night, nor silver birds; And I can only stare, and shape my grief In little words. I cannot conjure loveliness, to drown The bitter woe that racks my cords apart. The weary pen that sets my sorrow down Feeds at my heart. There is no mercy in the shifting year, No beauty wraps me tenderly about. I turn to little words- so you, my dear, Can spell them out.

  Dorothy Parker

  Grief, Heart, Night

  Dorothy Parker (1936). “Not So Deep as a Well”, Macmillan Company of Canada

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• There's a wonderful old Italian joke about a poor man who goes to church every day and prays before the statue of a great saint,'Dear saint-please, please, please...give me the grace to win the lottery.' This lament goes on for months. Finally the exasperated statue come to life, looks down at the begging man and says in weary disgust,'My son-please, please, please...buy a ticket.

  Elizabeth Gilbert

  Son, Italian, Winning

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• For a moment, or a second, the pinched expressions of the cynical, world-weary, throat-cutting, miserable bastards we've all had to become disappears, when we're confronted with something as simple as a plate of food.

  Anthony Bourdain

  Cutting, Simple, Expression

  Anthony Bourdain (2011). “Tony Bourdain boxset: Kitchen Confidential & Medium Raw”, p.281, A&C Black

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• Please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each soul that day as if it were newly born. I even kissed a few weary, poisoned cheeks. I listened to their last, gasping cries. Their vanishing words. I watched their love visions and freed them from their fear.

  Markus Zusak

  Believe, Soul, Vision

  Markus Zusak (2013). “The Book Thief: Enhanced Movie Tie-in Edition”, p.350, RH Childrens Books

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• We like so much to talk of ourselves that we are never weary of those private interviews with a lover during the course of whole years, and for the same reason the devout like to spend much time with their confessor; it is the pleasure of talking of themselves, even though it be to talk ill.

  Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, marquise de Sevigne

  Talking, Years, Interviews

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• The incarnation of God is a necessity of human nature. If we reap and truly have a Father, we must be able to clasp His feet in our penitence, and to lean on His breast in our weary sorrowfulness.

  Charles Deems

  Father, Feet, Able

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• Possess the spirit of independence. The Americans do, and why should not you? Possess the spirit of men, bold and enterprising, fearless and undaunted. Sue for your rights and privileges. Know the reason that you cannot attain them. Weary them with your importunities. You can but die, if you make the attempt; we shall certainly die if you do not. The Americans have practised nothing but head-work these 200 years, and we have done their drudgery. And is it not high time for us to imitate their examples, and practise head-work too, and keep what we have got, and get what we can?

  Maria W. Stewart

  Men, Rights, Years

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• Come little children I'll take thee away, into a land of Enchantment Come little children the time's come to play here in my garden of Shadows Follow sweet children I'll show thee the way through all the pain and the Sorrows Weep not poor childlen for life is this way murdering beauty and Passions Hush now dear children it must be this way to weary of life and Deceptions Rest now my children for soon we'll away into the calm and the Quiet Come little children I'll take thee away, into a land of Enchantment Come little children the time's come to play here in my garden of Shadows

  Edgar Allan Poe

  Sweet, Children, Pain

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• Oh,' she said, too bone-weary to pretend: 'I would far rather that I love you as I saw yesterday I do than that I had gone on worshiping you as I did not long since.' And she turned away hastily, and did not see that Little John would reach out to her; and half-running, went to Tuck's cottage, where she could pull on her half-dry clothes, and become a proper outlaw again. At least, she thought, fighting back tears, like this I am Cecil, with a place among friends, and a task to do. I am someone. I wonder if perhaps if I am no longer Cecil, I am no one at all.

  Robin McKinley

  Running, Love You, Fighting

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• Let no one delay the study of philosophy while young nor weary of it when old.

  Epicurus

  Philosophy, Delay, Study

  Epicurus, Brad Inwood, Lloyd P. Gerson “The Epicurus Reader”, Hackett Publishing

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• We all walk in a land of dreams. For what are we but atoms and hope, a handful of stardust and sinew? We are weary travelers trying to find our way home on a road that never ends. Am I a part of your dream? or are you but a part of mine?

  Libba Bray

  Dream, Home, Land

  Libba Bray (2009). “Going Bovine”, p.144, Delacorte Books for Young Readers

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• The delights of lust terminate in languishment and dejection; the object thou burnest for nauseates with satiety, and no sooner hadst thou possessed it, but thou wert weary of its presence.

  Robert Dodsley

  Lust, Delight, Satiety

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• Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary? Where is the foundling’s father hidden? Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.

  Herman Melville

  Mother, Father, Lying

  Herman Melville (2016). “Moby Dick (World Classics, Unabridged)”, p.337, Vij Books India Pvt Ltd

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• Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? - Epithalamion

  Edmund Spenser

  Sad, Long, Ends

  'Epithalamion' (1595) l. 278

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