Quotes about legible
I still get so much fan mail addressed to Carol Brady, and I think a lot of it's through the Net. And I always answer it, if it's legible.
quote by Florence Henderson
Added by Lucian Velea
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On the still surviving Marks of our Saviour's
Whatever story of their cruelty,
Or nail, or thorn, or spear have writ in Thee,
Are in another sense
Still legible ;
Sweet is the difference :
Once I did spell
Every red letter
A wound of Thine ;
Now, what is better,
Balsam for mine.
poem by Richard Crashaw
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The human face is the organic seat of beauty. It is the register of value in development, a record of Experience, whose legitimate office is to perfect the life, a legible language to those who will study it, of the majestic mistress, the soul.
quote by Eliza Farnham
Added by Lucian Velea
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The first pages of memory are like the old family Bible. The first leaves are wholly faded and somewhat soiled with handling. But, when we turn further, and come to the chapters where Adam and Eve were banished from Paradise, then, all begins to grow clear and legible.
quote by Max Muller
Added by Lucian Velea
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A book called life
You find a book. a book unopened for some time. binding worn, title aged and not legible. you open it to find it dusty and blank. it has sat untouched for a quite a while. this book is the story of you. a story not yet written, but exciting non the less. a story to be one of epic, and legend. a story to be passed down for generations. that will be stamped into the pages of history and inspire forever. we all have a story, we simply need to write it.
poem by Nick Feiner
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I Do Not Die
Manipulating grief, dirty hands -
open the lid,
release imagos. Eyes are blank.
You unravel the last of roses.
Surface tension wavers. An imbecile
sky pours the eyes, nose and ears.
Courtyard fills again, morphed resurrection.
I am persona non grata
in my own home. The moon does not cry.
Mystical lights. Headstones not legible.
Lockjaw. Waiting for morning-glory.
Stars are blinking.
Still I am stupid, courting my failures.
Cushion of thorns, I am weary of heavens.
Me, this earth, I do not die.
poem by Satish Verma
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In The Harbour: Memories
Oft I remember those I have known
In other days, to whom my heart was lead
As by a magnet, and who are not dead,
But absent, and their memories overgrown
With other thoughts and troubles of my own,
As graves with grasses are, and at their head
The stone with moss and lichens so o'er spread,
Nothing is legible but the name alone.
And is it so with them? After long years.
Do they remember me in the same way,
And is the memory pleasant as to me?
I fear to ask; yet wherefore are my fears?
Pleasures, like flowers, may wither and decay,
And yet the root perennial may be.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Memories
Oft I remember those I have known
In other days, to whom my heart was lead
As by a magnet, and who are not dead,
But absent, and their memories overgrown
With other thoughts and troubles of my own,
As graves with grasses are, and at their head
The stone with moss and lichens so o'er spread,
Nothing is legible but the name alone.
And is it so with them? After long years.
Do they remember me in the same way,
And is the memory pleasant as to me?
I fear to ask; yet wherefore are my fears?
Pleasures, like flowers, may wither and decay,
And yet the root perennial may be.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Swan Song
A poets quill lies on his desk
Atop a sheet of coffee-stained
Paper containing stylish script-
An Edwardian handwriting.
The quills point appeared to be dry
For sometime, likewise the inkwell.
On closer inspection the words
On the page became legible:
“My Swan Song” the title began.
It continued: “The flame of life
Grows dim and everything I have
Seen in this light was through the eyes
Of love. Love was writing verses
With this pen.” The words ended there.
Further searching found a yellowed,
Crinkled obituary clip:
“Today the town is saddened by
The loss of its poet Albert__...”
poem by Albert Ahearn
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June Light
Your voice, with clear location of June days,
Called me outside the window.You were there,
Light yet composed, as in the just soft stare
Of uncontested summer all things raise
Plainly their seeming into seamless air.
Then your love looked as simple and entire
As that picked pear you tossed me, and your face
As legible as pearskin's fleck and trace,
Which promise always wine, by mottled fire
More fatal fleshed than ever human grace.
And your gay gift—Oh when I saw it fall
Into my hands, through all that naïve light,
It seemed as blessed with truth and new delight
As must have been the first great gift of all.
poem by Richard Wilbur
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