Ave Maria Quotes

Ave maria, gratia plena, get him out of this war, and if you gotta take someone then take me, because I've got nothing real to go home to but he's got a girl now and I can see the hope written all over his face when he sees her. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, pray for us sinners, but don't spend too much time on my immortal soul, because not even divine intervention can help me now. I know when to walk away from a fight and trying my damnedest not to need him was a losing battle. I won't be in the history book; that's for you. But I loved you first. As long as they get that right., I don't care what they say.

The soothing vocals of “Ave Maria” serenaded from the small speaker, and Austin looked at me and shrugged in embarrassment. “It makes her smile,” was all he said. I lost a piece of my heart to him right then.

By the time he was done with the deer it had been dark three hours and his bad leg was singing 'Ave Maria'.

bad leg was singing “Ave Maria.

Mothers of America let your kids go to the movies! get them out of the house so they won't know what you're up to it's true that fresh air is good for the body but what about the soul that grows in darkness, embossed by silvery images and when you grow old as grow old you must they won't hate you

The youngest member of this ageing community was ex-variety artiste, Patrick L. Balls. Fifty-nine now, he spent out his remaining years pulling a rope lift and bottling fruit. He had once whistled Ave Maria for Queen Victoria. She wasn't present at the time, but nevertheless that's who he was whistling it for.

She went as through a forest -- the columns were furrowed like ancient trees, and in through the forest flowed the light, many-hued and clear as song, from the pictured windows. High up above her, beasts and men sported among the stone leafage, and angels played -- and yet far, dizzily far higher, the vaulting soared, lifting the church towards God. In a hall that lay to one side, worship was being held at an altar. Kristin sank down on her knees by a pillar. The singing cut into her like a too strong light. Now she saw how low she lay in the dust. ... Pater noster. Credo in unum Deum. Ave Maria, gratia plena.

Telling Blake about Livia had not broken him. It had given him wings. Cole prayed for forgiveness for the jealousy he felt. He pulled out his phone and texted Beckett: He’s playing! Like an angel. No Ave Maria. Beckett’s reply came from ecstatic fingers: MdamttohAwebome!!!

Seed Thought Everything in the Universe has its own song. A chorus of frogs. The wind in the trees. Songs inspire the soul to remember how to love. Ave Maria opens the heart to compassion. Kyrie Eleison awakens forgiveness. Shalom Aleichem beckons the tired soul to rest. Om restores harmony and unity. Music is a powerful connection to our Source.

She'd never been big on church before, but as soon as we landed on cancer planet she went so over-the-top Jesucristo that I think she would have nailed herself to a cross if she'd had one handy. That last year she was especially Ave Maria. Had her prayer group over to our apartment two, three times a day. The Four Horsefaces of the Apocalypse, I called them.

O som dos timorenses a rezar em coro Ave Maria em português, dentro de um cemitério e enquanto os indonésios os matavam, teve um efeito psique nacional.Não era já um povo distante, desconhecido e pouco familiar que os indonésios estavam a aniquilar. Era um povo que falava português, rezava como os portugueses aos domingos nas missas, parecia português. Eram portugueses sobretudo isso, eles eram portugueses. Os indonésios estavam a matar portugueses.

Cole turned and went down the stairs to wait for the inevitable. Soon Blake would descend the stairs and into madness. But Blake had only taken his favorite parts from Cole’s little speech. Livia had tried to find him. Livia needed him to keep her safe. Blake turned to face the organ. The keys had danced mockingly like disjointed puzzle pieces before, but now…Now they waited obediently. His hands knew them. His hands could sweep them together and create. So he did. He leapt right over the Ave Maria as if Livia held his hand to help him jump. No more Ave Maria. His hands flew over the organ, composing, painting, revealing all that was within him. Blake would show Livia all he had inside for her. If she was looking for him, she didn’t hate him. If she was looking for him, he was allowed to love her. Even if Cole was right and Blake didn’t have the common sense to be with her, he could watch her, like a knight and his queen. He could protect her so she never faced anyone like Dentist again. Blake was allowed to love Livia. And he did. Blake loves Livia.

Therefore, as St. Sophronius, Patriarch of Jerusalem, asserts, the archangel Gabriel called her full of grace: “Ave gratia plena;” because whilst to others, as the saint above mentioned remarks, limited grace is given, to Mary it was given in fulness. And thus it was ordered, as St. Basil attests, that in this way she might become the worthy mediatrix between God and men. For if the Virgin had not been full of divine grace, as St. Lawrence Justinian adds, how could she be the ladder of paradise, the advocate of the world, and the true mediatrix between God and men?

1496: La Conceptión Sacrilege Bartholomew Columbus, Christopher’s brother and lieutenant, attends an incineration of human flesh. Six men play the leads in the grand opening of Haiti’s incinerator. The smoke makes everyone cough. The six are burning as a punishment and as a lesson: They have buried the images of Christ and the Virgin that Fray Ramon Pane left with them for protection and consolation. Fray Ramon taught them to pray on their knees, to say the Ave Maria and Paternoster and to invoke the name of Jesus in the face of temptation, injury, and death. No one has asked them why they buried the images. They were hoping that the new gods would fertilize their fields of corn, cassava, boniato, and beans. The fire adds warmth to the humid, sticky heat that foreshadows heavy rain. (103)

And then, on his soul and conscience, [Gringoire] ... was not very sure that he was madly in love with the gypsy. He loved her goat almost as dearly. It was a charming animal, gentle, intelligent, clever; a learned goat. Nothing was more common in the Middle Ages than these learned animals, which amazed people greatly, and often led their instructors to the stake. But the witchcraft of the goat with the golden hoofs was a very innocent species of magic. Gringoire explained them to the archdeacon, whom these details seemed to interest deeply. In the majority of cases, it was sufficient to present the tambourine to the goat in such or such a manner, in order to obtain from him the trick desired. He had been trained to this by the gypsy, who possessed, in these delicate arts, so rare a talent that two months had sufficed to teach the goat to write, with movable letters, the word “Phœbus.” “‘Phœbus!’” said the priest; “why ‘Phœbus’?” “I know not,” replied Gringoire. “Perhaps it is a word which she believes to be endowed with some magic and secret virtue. She often repeats it in a low tone when she thinks that she is alone.” “Are you sure,” persisted Claude, with his penetrating glance, “that it is only a word and not a name?” “The name of whom?” said the poet. “How should I know?” said the priest. “This is what I imagine, messire. These Bohemians are something like Guebrs, and adore the sun. Hence, Phœbus.” “That does not seem so clear to me as to you, Master Pierre.” “After all, that does not concern me. Let her mumble her Phœbus at her pleasure. One thing is certain, that Djali loves me almost as much as he does her.” “Who is Djali?” “The goat.” The archdeacon dropped his chin into his hand, and appeared to reflect for a moment. All at once he turned abruptly to Gringoire once more. “And do you swear to me that you have not touched her?” “Whom?” said Gringoire; “the goat?” “No, that woman.” “My wife? I swear to you that I have not.” “You are often alone with her?” “A good hour every evening.” Dom Claude frowned. “Oh! oh! Solus cum sola non cogitabuntur orare Pater Noster.” “Upon my soul, I could say the Pater, and the Ave Maria, and the Credo in Deum patrem omnipotentem without her paying any more attention to me than a chicken to a church.” “Swear to me, by the body of your mother,” repeated the archdeacon violently, “that you have not touched that creature with even the tip of your finger.” “I will also swear it by the head of my father, for the two things have more affinity between them. But, my reverend master, permit me a question in my turn.” “Speak, sir.” “What concern is it of yours?” The archdeacon’s pale face became as crimson as the cheek of a young girl.

Ave Maria BY FRANK O'HARA Mothers of America let your kids go to the movies! get them out of the house so they won’t know what you’re up to it’s true that fresh air is good for the body but what about the soul that grows in darkness, embossed by silvery images and when you grow old as grow old you must they won’t hate you they won’t criticize you they won’t know they’ll be in some glamorous country they first saw on a Saturday afternoon or playing hookey they may even be grateful to you for their first sexual experience which only cost you a quarter and didn’t upset the peaceful home they will know where candy bars come from and gratuitous bags of popcorn as gratuitous as leaving the movie before it’s over with a pleasant stranger whose apartment is in the Heaven on Earth Bldg near the Williamsburg Bridge oh mothers you will have made the little tykes so happy because if nobody does pick them up in the movies they won’t know the difference and if somebody does it’ll be sheer gravy and they’ll have been truly entertained either way instead of hanging around the yard or up in their room hating you prematurely since you won’t have done anything horribly mean yet except keeping them from the darker joys it’s unforgivable the latter so don’t blame me if you won’t take this advice and the family breaks up and your children grow old and blind in front of a TV set seeing movies you wouldn’t let them see when they were young

And if you wish to receive of the ancient city an impression with which the modern one can no longer furnish you, climb—on the morning of some grand festival, beneath the rising sun of Easter or of Pentecost—climb upon some elevated point, whence you command the entire capital; and be present at the wakening of the chimes. Behold, at a signal given from heaven, for it is the sun which gives it, all those churches quiver simultaneously. First come scattered strokes, running from one church to another, as when musicians give warning that they are about to begin. Then, all at once, behold!—for it seems at times, as though the ear also possessed a sight of its own,—behold, rising from each bell tower, something like a column of sound, a cloud of harmony. First, the vibration of each bell mounts straight upwards, pure and, so to speak, isolated from the others, into the splendid morning sky; then, little by little, as they swell they melt together, mingle, are lost in each other, and amalgamate in a magnificent concert. It is no longer anything but a mass of sonorous vibrations incessantly sent forth from the numerous belfries; floats, undulates, bounds, whirls over the city, and prolongs far beyond the horizon the deafening circle of its oscillations. Nevertheless, this sea of harmony is not a chaos; great and profound as it is, it has not lost its transparency; you behold the windings of each group of notes which escapes from the belfries. You can follow the dialogue, by turns grave and shrill, of the treble and the bass; you can see the octaves leap from one tower to another; you watch them spring forth, winged, light, and whistling, from the silver bell, to fall, broken and limping from the bell of wood; you admire in their midst the rich gamut which incessantly ascends and re-ascends the seven bells of Saint-Eustache; you see light and rapid notes running across it, executing three or four luminous zigzags, and vanishing like flashes of lightning. Yonder is the Abbey of Saint-Martin, a shrill, cracked singer; here the gruff and gloomy voice of the Bastille; at the other end, the great tower of the Louvre, with its bass. The royal chime of the palace scatters on all sides, and without relaxation, resplendent trills, upon which fall, at regular intervals, the heavy strokes from the belfry of Notre-Dame, which makes them sparkle like the anvil under the hammer. At intervals you behold the passage of sounds of all forms which come from the triple peal of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Then, again, from time to time, this mass of sublime noises opens and gives passage to the beats of the Ave Maria, which bursts forth and sparkles like an aigrette of stars. Below, in the very depths of the concert, you confusedly distinguish the interior chanting of the churches, which exhales through the vibrating pores of their vaulted roofs. Assuredly, this is an opera which it is worth the trouble of listening to. Ordinarily, the noise which escapes from Paris by day is the city speaking; by night, it is the city breathing; in this case, it is the city singing. Lend an ear, then, to this concert of bell towers; spread over all the murmur of half a million men, the eternal plaint of the river, the infinite breathings of the wind, the grave and distant quartette of the four forests arranged upon the hills, on the horizon, like immense stacks of organ pipes; extinguish, as in a half shade, all that is too hoarse and too shrill about the central chime, and say whether you know anything in the world more rich and joyful, more golden, more dazzling, than this tumult of bells and chimes;—than this furnace of music,—than these ten thousand brazen voices chanting simultaneously in the flutes of stone, three hundred feet high,—than this city which is no longer anything but an orchestra,—than this symphony which produces the noise of a tempest.

Creo que debería empezar a trabajar un poco, ahora que aprendo a ver. Tengo veintiocho años y no me ha ocurrido prácticamente nada. Recapitulemos: he escrito un estudio malo sobre Carpaccio, una obra de teatro que se titula Matrimonio y trata de demostrar una tesis falsa con medios ambiguos, y algunos versos. Ay, pero los versos valen tan poco, cuando se los escribe de joven. Uno debería esperar y dedicar toda una vida a atesorar sentido y dulzura, una vida larga, a ser posible, y entonces, al término de la misma, quizá fuera capaz de escribir diez versos que merecieran la pena. Y es que, contrariamente a lo que cree la gente, los versos no son sentimientos (éstos se tienen ya en la primera juventud): son vivencias. Para dar a luz un solo verso hay que haber visto muchas ciudades, hombres y cosas, hay que conocer los animales, hay que sentir cómo vuelan las aves y saber con qué ademán se abren las flores pequeñas al amanecer. Hay que ser capaz de recordar caminos de regiones desconocidas, encuentros inesperados y separaciones que se veían venir de lejos; días de infancia aún por aclarar, a los padres a los que no podíamos evitar ofender cuando nos traían una alegría que nosotros no entendíamos (era una alegría destinada a otro); las enfermedades infantiles que aparecían de un modo tan extraño y experimentaban tantas transformaciones profundas y graves, días pasados en estancias tranquilas y recogidas, y mañanas junto al mar, el mar en general, los mares, las noches de viaje que pasaban altas y como una exhalación y volaban con todas las estrellas; y ni siquiera basta con ser capaz de pensar en todo esto. Hay que haber conservado el recuerdo de muchas noches de amor, ninguna de las cuales se parece a la otra, de gritos de parturientas y de mujeres que acaban de dar a luz y, aligeradas, blancas y durmientes, se cierran. Pero también hay que haber asistido a moribundos, estado con muertos en habitaciones con la ventana abierta y ruidos esporádicos. Y tampoco basta con tener recuerdos. Hay que saber olvidarlos, si son muchos, y tener la enorme paciencia de esperar a que regresen. Porque los recuerdos en sí todavía no existen. Solo cuando se tornan sangre en nosotros, cuando se convierten en mirada y gesto, cuando se hacen indecibles y no pueden distinguirse ya de nosotros, solo entonces puede suceder que, en un momento rarísimo, brote en su centro y emane de ellos la primera palabra de un verso.

Our Daily Epiphanies You shall be radiant at what you see… Isaiah 60:5 Two people can experience the same event very differently. One might “see” God’s hand at work while another may not. For example, one will curse his bad luck upon having a car accident, while the other will give thanks that God saved him from serious injury. In the end, some will have experienced their lives as a succession of little miracles, and they will count themselves blessed. Others will judge that life has been unfair and cheated them. The difference is typically in the eye of the beholder. If we have eyes to see the daily epiphanies in our lives, we will end up with grateful and joyful hearts. If we do not, we can easily become angry and dissatisfied. Let’s begin this day with a prayer: “Lord, give me the eyes today and every day to see your generous and merciful hand at work.” May every day be for us an epiphany of the Lord. Msgr. Stephen J. Rossetti Msgr. Rossetti is a priest of the Diocese of Syracuse, clinical associate professor at the Catholic University of America and visiting professor at the Gregorian University in Rome. He is author of numerous books, including his latest, Letters to My Brothers: Words of Hope and Challenge to Priests from Ave Maria Press.

Ave Maria Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus. Sancta Maria Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostræ. Amen.

Quem permanecer em mim e eu nele, esse dá muito fruto; porque sem mim nada podeis fazer.

Mas peça-a com fé, sem nenhuma vacilação, porque o homem que vacila assemelha-se à onda do mar, levantada pelo vento e agitada de um lado para o outro. 7 Não pense, portanto, tal homem que alcançará alguma coisa do Senhor, 8 pois é um homem irresoluto, inconstante em todo o seu proceder.*

Por isso, para muita gente, a prece mais fervorosa, na hora de ir para a cairia, não é o consabido pai-nosso ou a sempiterna ave-maria, mas sim esta, Livrai-nos, Senhor, de todo o mal, e em particular da ira dos mansos.

E nada de Deus por dentro de mim. Era indiferente aos castigos do céu. Os lobisomens faziam-me mais medo. A minha religião não conhecia os pecados e as penitências. O pavor do inferno, eu confundia com os castigos dos contos de Trancoso. Tudo entrava por uma perna de pinto e saía por uma perna de pato. Ia para a cama sem um pelo-sinal e acordava sem uma ave-maria. O meu são Luís Gonzaga devia olhar com nojo para o seu irmão afundado na lama.

A perfect and true will can only exist when we have been entirely taken up into God's will and no longer have our own will; whoever does this the more, the more and the more truly they are rooted in God. Indeed, a single Ave Maria spoken in this spirit, when we have stripped ourselves of ourselves, is worth more than the repetition of a thousand psalters without it. In fact, a single step would be better with it than to cross the sea without it.

She’s one of those people that makes it look easy, She could wake up out of bed and look like a million dollars, whereas I wake up and look like $1.25.

Here I am a veteran in private investigating and snooping around, and I’m taking orders from a high-school cheerleader.

Instrução sobre o escândalo, o perdão e a fé 171 Jesus disse também a seus discípulos: “É impossível que não haja escândalos, mas ai daquele por quem eles vêm! 2 Melhor lhe seria que se lhe atasse em volta do pescoço uma pedra de moinho e que fosse lançado ao mar, do que levar para o mal a um só destes pequeninos. Tomai cuidado de vós mesmos. 3 Se teu irmão pecar, repreende-o; se se arrepender, perdoa-lhe. 4 Se pecar sete vezes no dia contra ti e sete vezes no dia vier procurar-te, dizendo: ‘Estou arrependido’, lhe perdoarás.” 5 Os apóstolos disseram ao Senhor: “Aumenta-nos a fé!”. 6 Disse o Senhor: “Se tiverdes fé como um grão de mostarda, direis a esta amoreira: Arranca-te e transplanta-te no mar, e ela vos obedecerá”.

Quando construíres uma casa nova, farás um parapeito em volta do teto, para que não se derrame sangue sobre a tua casa, se viesse alguém a cair lá de cima.

In 2001, researchers at the University of Pavia in Italy gathered two dozen subjects, covered them with sensors to measure blood flow, heart rate, and nervous system feedback, then had them recite a Buddhist mantra as well as the original Latin version of the rosary, the Catholic prayer cycle of the Ave Maria, which is repeated half by a priest and half by the congregation. They were stunned to find that the average number of breaths for each cycle was “almost exactly” identical, just a bit quicker than the pace of the Hindu, Taoist, and Native American prayers: 5.5 breaths a minute.

appreciate the importance of rhythmical breathing it is sufficient to say that is it “synchronises inherent cardiovascular rhythms and modify baroreflex sensitivity.”[150] In lay language it means slow rhythmical breathing helps cardiac patients live longer. Interestingly, reciting Ave Maria prayer and yoga mantra results in rhythmical six breaths per minute. Maybe that’s why people who go to church at least once a week extend the lifespan by seven years.[151]

I love the music most of all—“O Come, All Ye Faithful,” “Silent Night,” “The First Noel,” “Joy to the World,” “O Holy Night” and “Ave Maria.” Tears fill my eyes as my heart overflows with joy and gratitude.

God strikes his holy bells—Ave Maria!—and Your hand grabs mine. We, the uncrowned Righteous, The uncrowned Incorruptible, mute of vows and Ignorant of commandments. Our practiced restraint Has earned us what? How many Sundays lived In vain? There are laws and there is Law. There is love And there is Love; Need and a nagging small want. I would be happy to forsake everything they told me To desire: glory, rejoicing, even death. To be left With only a limitless holy blank. And you? Do you remember our Old Testament phase, Quaking at the fate of whole cities abruptly erased? Now we’re onto Jesus—those feet! those wrists!— Though belief is a country that eludes us. For ceremony, we light a mosquito coil, Turn down the bed, whisper about small things Like mornings on the beach, swimming farther And farther into cold rhythmic waves, almost Eager for the greedy underside of day. God is ravenous unending fright. Blessed Virgin, safe on the shore, or high up On the cliff overlooking every sea: forget me.

believe that the rosary may have partly evolved because it synchronized with the inherent cardiovascular (Mayer) rhythms, and thus gave a feeling of wellbeing, and perhaps an increased responsiveness to the religious message,” the Pavia researchers wrote. In other words, the meditations, Ave Marias, and dozens of other prayers that had been developed over the past several thousand years weren’t all baseless. Prayer heals, especially when it’s practiced at 5.5 breaths a minute.

AVE MARIA Mothers of America . let your kids go to the movies! get them out of the house so they won't know what you're up to it's true that fresh air is good for the body but what about the soul that grows in darkness, embossed by silvery images and when you grow old as grow old you must they won't hate you they won't criticize you they won't know they'll be in some glamorous country they first saw on a Saturday afternoon or playing hookey they may, even be grateful to you for their first sexual experience which only cost you a quarter and didn't upset the peaceful home they will know where candy bars come from and gratuitous bags of popcorn as gratuitous as leaving the movie before it's over with a pleasant stranger whose apartment is in the Heaven on Earth Bldg near the Williamsburg Bridge oh mothers you will have made the little tykes so happy because if nobody does pick them up in the movies they won't know the difference and if somebody does it'll be sheer gravy and they'll have been truly entertained either way instead of hanging around the yard or up in their room hating you prematurely since you won't have done anything horribly mean yet except keeping them from the darker joys it's unforgivable the latter so don't blame me if you won't take this advice and the family breaks up and your children grow old and blind in front of a TV set seeing movies you wouldn't let them see when they were young

Paul Turovsky is known in the real estate sector as an esteemed and results-oriented professional. He is highly regarded by clients and investors, and he works closely with each through real estate acquisitions—both residential and commercial. Mr. Turovsky is an alum of Baruch College, where he received his Bachelor in Business Administration in Finance & Investments in 2009 before continuing his education at Ave Maria School of Law, where he graduated with his Juris Doctorate in 2013.

Paul Turovsky is a real estate professional who values results-oriented decisions and proactive strategies in representing his clients. Over 15 years, he’s established himself as an industry expert, brokering various asset classes such as residential and commercial, multi-family, and hospitality. Mr. Turovsky has supplemented his industry knowledge with an advanced education, graduating with his B.A. in Finance & Investments from Baruch College and earning his Juris Doctorate from Ave Maria School of Law.

Nessa altura pensei muitas vezes que, se me obrigassem a viver dentro de um tronco seco de árvore, sem outra ocupação, além de olhar a flor do céu por cima da minha cabeça, ter-me-ia habituado pouco a pouco. Observaria a passagem das aves ou os encontros entre as nuvens, tal como aqui observava as extraordinárias gravatas do advogado e como, num outro mundo, esperava até sábado para apertar nos meus braços o corpo de Maria. Ora a verdade, afinal de contas, é que eu não estava dentro de um tronco de árvore. Havia pessoas mais infelizes do que eu. Acabamos por nos habituar a tudo, gostava a minha mãe de dizer..

Por las nubes me desplazo, como un ave emigrando, tratando de encontrarte, buscando para amarte.

It will probably, be the flu, in a helicopter. I know, by now that the flu affects metal objects!

I'd like to be kissed the way that Rhett Butler, in fact, kissed Scarlett O'Hara while Atlanta burned. I'd like to be held the way that Heathcliff held Catherine on the moors. I'd like a passion so explosive it could burn down Thornfield Hall. I'd like a man to look at me with the whole world in his eyes and know exactly what to do with the rest of him to please me. - Ave Maria Mulligan, Big Stone Gap

O prêmio da humildade é o temor do Senhor, a riqueza, a honra e a vida. 5 Espinhos e laços há no caminho do perverso; quem guarda sua vida retira-se para longe deles. 6 Ensina à criança o caminho que ela deve seguir; mesmo quando envelhecer, dele não há de se afastar.

It's a sleepy song, isn't it? It pus me to sleep. But one just...keeps...playing...on and on and on, 'Ave Maria...!' Until the song reaches its natural close when the pianist dies of boredom. Then it's played at his funeral.

Ave Maria.

Ave Maria Ave Maria! Maiden mild! Listen to a maiden's pleading from these rocks, stark and wild, my prayer shall be wafted to thee. we shall sleep safely till morning, though men be ever so cruel. o Maiden, see a maiden's distress, O Mother, hear a suppliant child. Ave Maria, undefiled! When we upon this rock lie down to slumber, and they protection covers us, The hard stone will seem soft to us. If Though smilest, the scent of roses will float Through this murky cavern, O Mother, hear a child's petition, O maiden, 'tis a maid that calls! Ave Maria, Maiden pure, the demons of the earth and air, drien forth by thy gracious glance cannot stay here with us. we will camly bow to fate Since they holy comfort hovers over us; Mayest though be favourably inclined to the maiden, To the child that pleads for her father!

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Quando recolhíamos ao quarto, alumiados pelo Gonçalves, passou por nós, bruscamente, no corredor, uma senhora, grande e branca, com um rumor forte de sedas claras, espalhando um aroma de almíscar. Era a inglesa do senhor barão. No meu leito de ferro, desperto pelo barulho das seges, eu pensava nela, rezando Ave-Marias. Nunca roçara corpo tão belo, de um perfume tão penetrante; ela era cheia de graça, O Senhor estava com ela, e passava, bendita entre as mulheres, com um rumor de sedas claras. . .

Ave Maria" Mothers of America let your kids go to the movies! get them out of the house so they won’t know what you’re up to it’s true that fresh air is good for the body but what about the soul that grows in darkness, embossed by silvery images and when you grow old as grow old you must they won’t hate you they won’t criticize you they won’t know they’ll be in some glamorous country they first saw on a Saturday afternoon or playing hookey they may even be grateful to you for their first sexual experience which only cost you a quarter and didn’t upset the peaceful home they will know where candy bars come from and gratuitous bags of popcorn as gratuitous as leaving the movie before it’s over with a pleasant stranger whose apartment is in the Heaven on Earth Bldg near the Williamsburg Bridge oh mothers you will have made the little tykes so happy because if nobody does pick them up in the movies they won’t know the difference and if somebody does it’ll be sheer gravy and they’ll have been truly entertained either way instead of hanging around the yard or up in their room hating you prematurely since you won’t have done anything horribly mean yet except keeping them from the darker joys it’s unforgivable the latter so don’t blame me if you won’t take this advice and the family breaks up and your children grow old and blind in front of a TV set seeing movies you wouldn’t let them see when they were young

Ave Maria,” she sang, drawing out the word so I could find my place . . . and follow. Her voice was slow. Low. And bold. She didn’t sing it in Latin, and she didn’t sing in the same key her mother did. She didn’t sing it like a trained soprano at all. She sang it like Esther. Like a woman throwing herself from a cliff because she damn well knew she could fly.

Jesteś jak słaby, cichy, srebrny promień światła, który wybłysnął z jakiegoś okienka dalekiej chaty i rozlał się w ciepłej nocy jesiennej na łąki, ponad mokre, miękkie zgło mgieł, co sennym, rozkoszy sytym zmęczeniem bezmierne obszary traw zaległo. A nad srebrzącą się przestrzenią mgieł kołysze się światło, gdyby wahająca się, rozwiewna fala; jak dźwięki mosiężnych dzwonów, gdy się z dala rozlegną na Ave Maria, płynie czyste, złote, gasnące i długo jeszcze przebrzmiewa, i leje się w duszę zmęczonym, chorym spokojem. Jesteś jak niebieska godzina świtu, kiedy wschód różowieć poczyna i światło z siebie wydycha. Cały świat się syci niepojętą tajemnicą zmartwychpowstania, tonie w niebieskiej błogości nieba, rozlewa się w topieli zimnej, roztopionej stali damasceńskiej, a naraz rozkwituje łuną szerokiego, palącego się morza fioletów i purpury, a w to morze tajnego barw przepychu wrzynają się ostre słupy promieni wschodzącego słońca. A wszystko głębokie, niebieskie i święte. Wokół Twoich oczu odblask w kształt protuberancji przy zaćmieniu słońca, a w otchłań mej duszy wchłaniały się gdyby dwie gwiazdy w rozpaczną czerń wichrowatych nocy jesiennych. Wokół Twych ust delikatne, miękkie linie, wtedy gdy się do pół-uśmiechu roztwierają — zdaje się, że widzę rodzime jezioro i pomnę szklistą, cichą powierzchnię i przebłyskujące w oddali koliste linie, gdym wiosłem o nią uderzał. Dźwięk Twego głosu spływał w mą duszę, jak gdyby go wiosenne wiatry przewiały przez zielone morze i słyszę, słyszę go jak morze cichego światła, przetworzone w atmosferę dźwięków, co mnie owiewa nieskończenie lekkim, miękkim drżeniem. Gdym Cię po raz pierwszy widział, zdało mi się, żem ujrzał mą duszę w jej całej nieznanej, tajemniczej nagości. Byłaś dla mnie objawieniem mej najczystszej zjawy: w Tobie rozwiązała się zagadka najtajniejszych snów i widziadeł mej tęsknoty za pięknem — za sztuką.

Ave Maria!