Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York, And all the clouds that loured upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our bruised arms hung up for monuments, Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,-- Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun.
O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console to be understood as to understand to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive it is in pardoning that we are pardoned and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
O my Brothers! love your Country. Our Country is our home, the home which God has given us, placing therein a numerous family which we love and are loved by, and with which we have a more intimate and quicker communion of feeling and thought than with others; a family which by its concentration upon a given spot, and by the homogeneous nature of its elements, is destined for a special kind of activity.
Odd, the years it took to learn one simple fact that the prize just ahead, the next job, publication, love affair, marriage always seemed to hold the key to satisfaction but never, in the longer run, sufficed.
Of what significance is one's one existence, one is basically unaware. What does a fish know about the water in which he swims all his life The bitter and the sweet come from outside. The hard from within, from one's own efforts. For the most part I do what my own nature drives me to do. It is embarrassing to earn such respect and love for it.
Oh how smoothly, how swiftly and horribly, how cruelly and thoroughly, one discovers the powers and prowess of Maya, the Supreme power of Illusions! With a simple sleight of her hand, léger de main, everything changes in a moment; electrically charged, awesome and exciting years of life shrink to moments - just to realize that all that fascinating reality had been a dream. Perhaps all that had happened previously had been a continuous sequence of beautiful images that one would admire and fall in love with, and to realize that it’s all the game of dreams, illusions and Maya. The reality also strikes, at the same moment, that everything one would still experience in the future, would see with one’s eyes and feel with one’s hands, up to the moment of one’s death — that everything is not going to be any different in substance, or any different in kind. Why would it be? It’s always all a game, all foam and all dreams. It’s Maya, the whole lovely and frightful, delicious and desperate kaleidoscope of life with its searing delights, intertwined with its searing sorrows, the amazing show that has been ongoing since the dawn of Universe.
Old hands soil, it seems, whatever they caress, but they too have their beauty when they are joined in prayer. Young hands were made for caresses and the sheathing of love. It is a pity to make them join too soon.