Cloud Strife Quotes

The truth is Canada is a cloud-cuckoo-land, an insufferably rich country governed by idiots, its self-made problems offering comic relief to the ills of the real world out there, where famine and racial strife and vandals in office are the unhappy rule.

In times of division and strife, build bridges to the hearts of those clouded by anger, hurt, hatred, and ignorance, so you can help open and understand their minds and hearts, and they can understand yours.

I sat wondering: Why is there always this deep shade of melancholy over the fields arid river banks, the sky and the sunshine of our country? And I came to the conclusion that it is because with us Nature is obviously the more important thing. The sky is free, the fields limitless; and the sun merges them into one blazing whole. In the midst of this, man seems so trivial. He comes and goes, like the ferry-boat, from this shore to the other; the babbling hum of his talk, the fitful echo of his song, is heard; the slight movement of his pursuit of his own petty desires is seen in the world's market-places: but how feeble, how temporary, how tragically meaningless it all seems amidst the immense aloofness of the Universe! The contrast between the beautiful, broad, unalloyed peace of Nature—calm, passive, silent, unfathomable,—and our own everyday worries—paltry, sorrow-laden, strife-tormented, puts me beside myself as I keep staring at the hazy, distant, blue line of trees which fringe the fields across the river. Where Nature is ever hidden, and cowers under mist and cloud, snow and darkness, there man feels himself master; he regards his desires, his works, as permanent; he wants to perpetuate them, he looks towards posterity, he raises monuments, he writes biographies; he even goes the length of erecting tombstones over the dead. So busy is he that he has not time to consider how many monuments crumble, how often names are forgotten!

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be

Ahh... you look like a bear wearing a marshmallow.

In the still of the night, in the world's ancient light Where wisdom grows up in strife My bewildering brain, toils in vain Through the darkness on the pathways of life Each invisible prayer is like a cloud in the air Tomorrow keeps turning around We live and we die, we know not why But I'll be with you when the deal goes down...

She managed a bored sigh. “I suppose we could do one picture, but a group shot won’t work. Nyx, how about one of you with your favorite child? Which one is that?” The brood rustled. Dozens of horrible glowing eyes turned toward Nyx. The goddess shifted uncomfortably, as if her chariot were heating up under her feet. Her shadow horses huffed and pawed at the void. “My favorite child?” she asked. “All my children are terrifying!” Percy snorted. “Seriously? I’ve met the Fates. I’ve met Thanatos. They weren’t so scary. You’ve got to have somebody in this crowd who’s worse than that.” “The darkest,” Annabeth said. “The most like you.” “I am the darkest,” hissed Eris. “Wars and strife! I have caused all manner of death!” “I am darker still!” snarled Geras. “I dim the eyes and addle the brain. Every mortal fears old age!” “Yeah, yeah,” Annabeth said, trying to ignore her chattering teeth. “I’m not seeing enough dark. I mean, you’re the children of Night! Show me dark!” The horde of arai wailed, flapping their leathery wings and stirring up clouds of blackness. Geras spread his withered hands and dimmed the entire abyss. Eris breathed a shadowy spray of buckshot across the void. “I am the darkest!” hissed one of the demons. “No, I!” “No! Behold my darkness!” If a thousand giant octopuses had squirted ink at the same time, at the bottom of the deepest, most sunless ocean trench, it could not have been blacker. Annabeth might as well have been blind. She gripped Percy’s hand and steeled her nerves. “Wait!” Nyx called, suddenly panicked. “I can’t see anything.” “Yes!” shouted one of her children proudly. “I did that!” “No, I did!” “Fool, it was me!” Dozens of voices argued in the darkness. The horses whinnied in alarm. “Stop it!” Nyx yelled. “Whose foot is that?” “Eris is hitting me!” cried someone. “Mother, tell her to stop hitting me!” “I did not!” yelled Eris. “Ouch!” The sounds of scuffling got louder. If possible, the darkness became even deeper. Annabeth’s eyes dilated so much, they felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. She squeezed Percy’s hand. “Ready?” “For what?” After a pause, he grunted unhappily. “Poseidon’s underpants, you can’t be serious.” “Somebody give me light!” Nyx screamed. “Gah! I can’t believe I just said that!” “It’s a trick!” Eris yelled. “The demigods are escaping!” “I’ve got them,” screamed an arai. “No, that’s my neck!” Geras gagged. “Jump!” Annabeth told Percy. They leaped into the darkness, aiming for the doorway far, far below.

Let Observation with extensive View, Survey Mankind, from China to Peru; Remark each anxious Toil, each eager strife, And watch the busy Scenes of crowded Life; Then say how Hope and Fear, Desire and Hate, O'erspread with Snares the clouded Maze of Fate, Where wav'ring Man, betray'd by vent'rous Pride, To tread the dreary Paths without a Guide; As treach'rous Phantoms in the Mist delude, Shuns fancied Ills, or chases airy Good. How rarely Reason guides the stubborn Choice, Rules the bold Hand, or prompts the suppliant Voice, How Nations sink, by darling Schemes oppress'd, When Vengeance listens to the Fool's Request. Fate wings with ev'ry Wish th' afflictive Dart, Each Gift of Nature, each Grace of Art, With fatal Heat impetuous Courage glows, With fatal Sweetness Elocution flows, Impeachment stops the Speaker's pow'rful Breath, And restless Fire precipitates on Death.

And the high mandate of his sire. Led by the Lord who rules the sky, The Gods and heavenly saints drew nigh, And honoured him with worthy meed, Rejoicing in each glorious deed. His task achieved, his foe removed, He triumphed, by the Gods approved. By grace of Heaven he raised to life The chieftains slain in mortal strife; Then in the magic chariot through The clouds to Nandigráma flew. Met by his faithful brothers there, He loosed his votive coil of hair: Thence fair Ayodhyá's town he gained, And o'er his father's kingdom reigned. Disease or famine ne'er oppressed His happy people, richly blest

I have been so great a lover: filled my days So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise, The pain, the calm, and the astonishment, Desire illimitable, and still content, And all dear names men use, to cheat despair, For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear Our hearts at random down the dark of life. Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far, My night shall be remembered for a star That outshone all the suns of all men's days. Shall I not crown them with immortal praise Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see The inenarrable godhead of delight? Love is a flame; -- we have beaconed the world's night. A city: -- and we have built it, these and I. An emperor: -- we have taught the world to die. So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence, And the high cause of Love's magnificence, And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames, And set them as a banner, that men may know, To dare the generations, burn, and blow Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming.... These I have loved: White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust; Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food; Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood; And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers; And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours, Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon; Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen Unpassioned beauty of a great machine; The benison of hot water; furs to touch; The good smell of old clothes; and other such -- The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers About dead leaves and last year's ferns.... Dear names, And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames; Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring; Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing; Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain, Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train; Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home; And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould; Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew; And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new; And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass; -- All these have been my loves. And these shall pass, Whatever passes not, in the great hour, Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power To hold them with me through the gate of Death. They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath, Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust And sacramented covenant to the dust. ---- Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake, And give what's left of love again, and make New friends, now strangers.... But the best I've known, Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown About the winds of the world, and fades from brains Of living men, and dies. Nothing remains. O dear my loves, O faithless, once again This one last gift I give: that after men Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed, Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved.

And Athena, daughter of Zeus who wields the aegis, let fall her rippling robe upon her father's floor, elaborate with embroidery, which she herself had made and labored on with her own hands, and putting on the cloak of Zeus who gathers clouds, she armed herself for tearful war. Around her shoulders she flung the tasseled aegis a thing of dread, crowned on every side with Panic all around, and Strife was on it, and Battle Spirit and chilling Flight, and on it too the terrible monstrous Gorgon head, a thing of awe and terror, portent of Zeus who wields the aegis; and on her head Athena placed her helmet, ridged on both sides, with four golden bosses, adorned with fighters of a hundred cities; she made her way on foot toward the flame-bright chariot, and seized her spear heavy, massive, powerful, with which she beats down the ranks of warrior men, with whom she, born of the mighty Father, might be angered.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

In the outer layers of young stars life nearly always appears not only in the normal manner but also in the form of parasites, minute independent organisms of fire, often no bigger than a cloud in the terrestrial air, but sometimes as large as the Earth itself. These "salamanders" either feed upon the welling energies of the star in the same manner as the star's own organic tissues feed, or simply prey upon those tissues themselves. Here as elsewhere the laws of biological evolution come into force, and in time there may appear races of intelligent flame-like beings. Even when the salamandrian life does not reach this level, its effect on the star's tissues may become evident to the star as a disease of its skin and sense organs, or even of its deeper tissues. It then experiences emotions not wholly unlike human fright and shame, and anxiously and most humanly guards its secret from the telepathic reach of its fellows. The salamandrian races have never been able to gain mastery over their fiery worlds. Many of them succumb, soon or late, either to some natural disaster or to internecine strife or to the self-cleansing activities of their mighty host. Many others survive, but in a relatively harmless state, troubling their stars only with a mild irritation, and a faint shade of insincerity in all their dealings with one another. In the public culture of the stars the salamandrian pest was completely ignored. Each star believed itself to be the only sufferer and the only sinner in the galaxy. One indirect effect the pest did have on stellar thought. It introduced the idea of purity. Each star prized the perfection of the stellar community all the more by reason of its own secret experience of impurity.

I have been so great a lover: filled my days So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise, The pain, the calm, and the astonishment, Desire illimitable, and still content, And all dear names men use, to cheat despair, For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear Our hearts at random down the dark of life. Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far, My night shall be remembered for a star That outshone all the suns of all men's days. Shall I not crown them with immortal praise Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see The inenarrable godhead of delight? Love is a flame:—we have beaconed the world's night. A city:—and we have built it, these and I. An emperor:—we have taught the world to die. So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence, And the high cause of Love's magnificence, And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames, And set them as a banner, that men may know, To dare the generations, burn, and blow Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming . . . . These I have loved: White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust; Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food; Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood; And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers; And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours, Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon; Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen Unpassioned beauty of a great machine; The benison of hot water; furs to touch; The good smell of old clothes; and other such— The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . . . Dear names, And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames; Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring; Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing; Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain, Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train; Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home; And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould; Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew; And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new; And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;— All these have been my loves. And these shall pass, Whatever passes not, in the great hour, Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power To hold them with me through the gate of Death. They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath, Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust And sacramented covenant to the dust. ——Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake, And give what's left of love again, and make New friends, now strangers. . . . But the best I've known Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown About the winds of the world, and fades from brains Of living men, and dies. Nothing remains. O dear my loves, O faithless, once again This one last gift I give: that after men Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed, Praise you, 'All these were lovely'; say, 'He loved.

Prayer and Action Go Hand in Hand     “Prayer and action go hand in hand” (Nehemiah 4:17).     I remember the frustration experienced in my home because of homework. Each day my kids would return from school, we would argue over when and where and how to do their nightly assignments. The ordeal stressed us and caused family strife. I decided to take it to God in prayer. I hoped that God would change my childrens’ attitudes so that they would look forward to doing their homework.This, however, was not the case.   I learned that although I can pray to God and ask Him to help I must also be willing to be part of the solution.   I can’t just pray and then throw up my hands and carry on with my day. I can ignore the fear and worry but I still need to be willing to take action. I believe it was Joyce Meyer who said, “Don’t react, act.”  So I don’t need to react with ranting, raving, whining and nagging. I must rely on God’s guidance and proceed with a solid plan to resolve this homework issue.   God often answers prayer through people. He can and will divinely interject but usually He uses people who are willing and obedient. I can pray for wisdom and knowledge but I must also act upon that knowledge and “do” something. It’s not enough for me to say, “Dear Lord, help my child to do homework” without listening for His answer and being open to His guidance.   We devised a homework system through listening to the wisdom of others and spending time in quiet reflection with God. I realize that although my plan is working well now, I may need to change it in the future. As our family’s needs change I can ask God for His guidance and His wisdom. Then I must be open and listen for it. God wants to answer our prayers but He wishes to work though His creation, not impose His will upon it.       Prayer is intimacy ~ Elsie Montgomery         How Does God Reveal Himself?     “Blessed is the one who reads the words of this prophecy, and blessed are those who hear it and take to heart what is written in it, because the time is near”(Revelation 1:3).     At my church, we worked through a Bible study by Beth Moore. A video series, entitled “A Heart Like His”, Beth invited us to join her on a journey to know King David, a man after God’s own heart.   Beth explained that when we ask God for something we shouldn’t be expecting Him to talk to us through the clouds. Instead, God speaks to us through His Word, the Bible. If we have a concern or problem or issue, we need to read the Bible to “listen” for God’s voice and His answer. Before opening the Bible, we need to pray that God would reveal Himself to us through the words on the page.   Beth gives the example of how God revealed Himself to Samuel through His Word, the Bible. Samuel 3:21 says, “The Lord continued to appear at Shiloh, and there he revealed himself to Samuel through his word.”  

Jesus instead said that we have a kainos command, thereby making something visible again which had been clouded or obscured – in this case, by many years of religious traditions that created strife and animosity between those seeking God, both Jew and Gentile. I will cover this in my chapter about Peter and his Acts 10 vision.

We need our lives to mean something, and while the startling advance of technology has made finding that meaning more difficult, the ultimate innovation will be the day we can manufacture significance without strife or conflict, find importance without the necessity of death. And then, maybe one day, we will become integrated with the machines themselves. Our individual consciousnesses will be subsumed. Our independent hopes will vanish. We will meet and merge in the cloud, and our digitized souls will swirl and eddy in the storms of data, a splay of bits and functions harmoniously brought into some grand, unseen alignment.

I was a preacher, and now I am thirsting for vengeance,” answered Christy, his face clouding darkly. “Wait until you learn what frontier life means. You are young here yet; you are flushed with the success of your teaching; you have lived a short time in this quiet village, where, until the last few days, all has been serene. You know nothing of the strife, of the necessity of fighting, of the cruelty which makes up this border existence. Only two years have hardened me so that I actually pant for the blood of the renegade who has robbed me. A frontiersman must take his choice of succumbing or cutting his way through flesh and bone. Blood will be spilled; if not yours, then your foe’s. The pioneers run from the plow to the fight; they halt in the cutting of corn to defend themselves, and in winter must battle against cold and hardship, which would be less cruel if there was time in summer to prepare for winter, for the savages leave them hardly an opportunity to plant crops. How many pioneers have given up, and gone back east? Find me any who would not return home to-morrow, if they could. All that brings them out here is the chance for a home, and all that keeps them out here is the poor hope of finally attaining their object. Always there is a possibility of future prosperity. But this generation, if it survives, will never see prosperity and happiness. What does this border life engender in a pioneer who holds his own in it? Of all things, not Christianity. He becomes a fighter, keen as the redskin who steals through the coverts.

Many times in a family, when any affliction befalls them, Oh, what an amount of discontent is there between man and wife! If they are crossed in their possessions at land, or have bad news from across the seas, or if those whom they trusted are ruined and the like, or perhaps something in the family causes strife between man and wife, in reference to the children or servants, and there is nothing but quarrelling and discontent among them, now they are many times burdened with their own discontent; and perhaps will say one to another, It is very uncomfortable for us to live so discontented as we do. But have you ever tried this way, husband and wife? Have you ever got alone and said, 'Come, Oh let us go and humble our souls before God together, let us go into our chamber and humble our souls before God for our sin, by which we have abused those mercies that God has taken away from us, and we have provoked God against us. Oh let us charge ourselves with our sin, and be humbled before the Lord together.'? Have you tried such a way as this? Oh you would find that the cloud would be taken away, and the sun would shine in upon you, and you would have a great deal more contentment than ever you had. If a man's estate is broken, either by plunderers, or any other way; how shall this man have contentment? How? By the breaking of his heart. God has broken your estate; Oh seek to him for the breaking of your heart likewise. Indeed, a broken estate and a whole heart, a hard heart, will not join together; there will be no contentment. But a broken estate and a broken heart will so suit one another, as that there will be more contentment than there was before.

Cicero: Good even, Casca. Brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so? Casca: Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests when the scolding winds have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen the ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam, to be exalted with the threat'ning clouds. But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction. Cicero: Why, saw you any thing more wonderful? Casca: A common slave — you know him well by sight — held up his left hand, which did flame and burn like twenty torches joined, and yet his hand, Not sensible of fire, remained unscorched. Besides — I ha' not since put up my sword — Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me. And there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformèd with their fear, who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit, Even at noonday, upon the market-place, Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigiesFor I believe they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon. Cicero Indeed, it is a strange-disposèd time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Come Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow? Casca He doth, for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there tomorrow. Cicero Good night then, Casca; this disturbèd sky Is not to walk in.

Cicero - Good even, Casca. Brought you Cæsar home? Why are you breathless and why stare you so? Casca - Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen the ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, to be exalted with the threatening clouds. But, never till tonight, never till now, did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, or else the world, too saucy with the gods, incenses them to send destruction. Cicero - Why, saw you anything more wonderful? Casca - A common slave—you know him well by sight—held up his left hand, which did flame and burn like twenty torches joined. And yet his hand, not sensible of fire, remained unscorched. Besides, I had not since put up my sword 'gainst the Capitol I met a lion, who glared upon me, and went surly by, without annoying me. And there were drawn upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, transformed with their fear who swore they saw men all in fire walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit even at noon-day upon the marketplace, hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies do so conjointly meet, let not men say "These are their reasons; they are natural," for I believe they are portentous things unto the climate that they point upon. Cicero - Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time, but men may construe things after their fashion, clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Come Cæsar to the Capitol tomorrow? Casca - He doth, for he did bid Antonius send word to you he would be there tomorrow. Cicero - Good night then, Casca. This disturbed sky is not to walk in. Casca - Farewell, Cicero.

Hand that stretched - Continued....... The river that flows no more, the hand that is tired of stretching forever, And then life would experience nothing exciting and nothing newer, Since the river would end its journey, as the hand would stretch no more, It is then everything may appear to be like before, but then there will be no one left to settle life’s daily score, So, I have not tossed anything into the stretched hand of this man, Because I know he is neither a beggar nor a destitute, he is life dressed as a man, Trying to understand who acts how, what happens to human emotions now, casting them in the crucible of endless strifes, Forcing them to walk on the edges of sharp knives, and making them battle against their own lives, Whereas in reality it plays this out at its own will, creating situations that save and many that kill, For life is like a river endlessly trying to perfect the human desires and human will, Without knowing one true aspect of human life, that life which represents everything, Will never understand, because human mind and heart are unlike anything; like it there is nothing, So the man may keep stretching his hand and people may offer him different glances, But I know just like few others, that it is life perfecting what it calls “chances!” For it does not like to be blamed for human pain or misery, Then it would evolve into its guilt, becoming the graveyard of its acts so unsavory, So it has invented a perfect cliche called chance and fate, To evade cosmic prosecution of its actually diabolic actions and its rotten state, But the pain of the stretched hand will one day become its cause of doom, I can already see the clouds of change, and clouds of grotesque gloom that over it already loom!

Hand that stretched - continued...... Trying to understand who acts how, what happens to human emotions now, casting them in the crucible of endless strifes, Forcing them to walk on the edges of sharp knives, and making them battle against their own lives, Whereas in reality it plays this out at its own will, creating situations that save and many that kill, For life is like a river endlessly trying to perfect the human desires and human will, Without knowing one true aspect of human life, that life which represents everything, Will never understand, because human mind and heart are unlike anything; like it there is nothing, So the man may keep stretching his hand and people may offer him different glances, But I know just like few others, that it is life perfecting what it calls “chances!” For it does not like to be blamed for human pain or misery, Then it would evolve into a guilt becoming the graveyard of its acts so unsavory, So it has invented a perfect cliche called chance and fate, To evade cosmic prosecution of its actually diabolic actions and its rotten state, But the pain of the stretched hand will one day become its cause of doom, I can already see the clouds of change, and clouds of grotesque gloom that over it already loom!

Being indirect in our communication can show us to be foolish, make us a part of the problem, make us accountable for the existence of the problem, and cause us to get caught up in the Devil’s snare as we bury anger and strife.

Love's Prayer If Heaven would hear my prayer,   My dearest wish would be, Thy sorrows not to share   But take them all on me; If Heaven would hear my prayer. I'd beg with prayers and sighs   That never a tear might flow From out thy lovely eyes,   If Heaven might grant it so; Mine be the tears and sighs. No cloud thy brow should cover,   But smiles each other chase From lips to eyes all over   Thy sweet and sunny face; The clouds my heart should cover. That all thy path be light   Let darkness fall on me; If all thy days be bright,   Mine black as night could be; My love would light my night. For thou art more than life,   And if our fate should set Life and my love at strife,   How could I then forget I love thee more than life?

No one lives in the slums because they want to. It's like this train. It can only go where the tracks take it.

No imputation on his purpose but cleared away like the cloud from a breath on spotless steel, leaving the metal bright as before. He was as incorruptible as he honorably said to me was Fessenden, his great rival in the Senate; and when he also one day, speaking of his limited means, remarked: "I have never had the art to get my hands into the Treasury," I was fain to answer, "You the whole man are in the Treasury yourself." He was indeed in our politics a fund and never-broken bank of moral wealth. Justice was his inspiration. He was a prophet by equity. Righteousness was his genius; and humanity, in any lack of imagination, his insight and foresight. He was without spot. He wore ermine though he sat not on the bench. John Jay had not cleaner hands, nor John Marshall a more honest will; Hamilton and Jefferson were no more patriotic in contending than he in every legal or congressional strife; and Story, his favorite teacher, and whose favorite pupil he was, no more opulent in knowledge or innocent in its use.