Helmet Crown Quotes

She [Catherine of Siena] compares Christ, too, with a knight who has ridden out to fight for us; for our sake He came down from Heaven to fight and triumph over the devil. The crown of thorns is His helmet, his flayed flesh His mail, the nails in His Hands and Feet, His gauntlet and spurs. So we should follow our Knight and take new courage in our trials and difficulties.

His chest was often bare, and his head was shaved, except for a strip of hair that ran from the crown to his neck and that stood straight up, like the crest of a Spartan’s helmet.

And well may God with the serving-folk Cast in His dreadful lot; Is not He too a servant, And is not He forgot? For was not God my gardener And silent like a slave; That opened oaks on the uplands Or thicket in graveyard gave? And was not God my armourer, All patient and unpaid, That sealed my skull as a helmet, And ribs for hauberk made? Did not a great grey servant Of all my sires and me, Build this pavilion of the pines, And herd the fowls and fill the vines, And labour and pass and leave no signs Save mercy and mystery? For God is a great servant, And rose before the day, From some primordial slumber torn; But all we living later born Sleep on, and rise after the morn, And the Lord has gone away. On things half sprung from sleeping, All sleeping suns have shone, They stretch stiff arms, the yawning trees, The beasts blink upon hands and knees, Man is awake and does and sees- But Heaven has done and gone. For who shall guess the good riddle Or speak of the Holiest, Save in faint figures and failing words, Who loves, yet laughs among the swords, Labours, and is at rest? But some see God like Guthrum, Crowned, with a great beard curled, But I see God like a good giant, That, laboring, lifts the world.

As Richard mounted his horse to follow, some of his Household protested that he must not wear into battle the helmet with the golden crown, for it would mark him as the prime target for the enemy. Quietly Richard replied that he would live, and die, King of England.

I leave a white and turbid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where'er I sail. The envious billows sidelong swell to whelm my track; let them; but first I pass. Yonder, by the ever-brimming goblet's rim, the warm waves blush like wine. The gold brow plumbs the blue. The diver sun --slow dived from noon, --goes down; my soul mounts up! she wearies with her endless hill. Is, then, the crown too heavy that I wear? this Iron Crown of Lombardy. Yet is it bright with many a gem; i, the wearer, see not its far flashings; but darkly feel that i wear that, that dazzlingly confounds. 'Tis iron --that I know--not gold. 'Tis split, too --that I feel; the jagged edge galls me so, my brain seems to beat against the solid metal; aye, steel skull, mine; the sort that needs no helmet in the most brain-battering fight!

People marvel that we’re not out in the streets, decking the monstrous, khaki tanks with roses and jasmine. They wonder why we don’t crown the hard, ugly helmets of the troops with wreaths of laurel. They question why we mourn our dead instead of gratefully offering them as sacrifices to the Gods of Democracy and Liberty. They wonder why we’re bitter.

The crowd started going crazy. Like even crazier than when Romeo got up from the hit. I was clinging to the railing, wondering if I would like prison, when Ivy sighed. "I swear. You have all the luck." Confused, I glanced around. Romeo was jogging toward us, helmet in his hands. Quickly, I glanced at the big screen and it was showing a wide shot of me clinging onto the rails and him running toward us. When he arrived, he slapped the guard on his back and said something in his ear. The guard looked at me and grinned and then walked away. Romeo stepped up to where I was. At the height I was at one the railing, for once I was taller than him. "You're killing me, Smalls," he said. "I had to interrupt a championship game to keep you from going to the slammer." "I was worried. You didn't get up." "And so you were just going to march out on the field and what?" God, he looked so… so incredible right then. His uniform stretched out over his wide shoulders and narrow waist. The pads strapped to his body made him look even stronger. He had grass stains on his knees, sweat in his hair, and ornery laughter in his sparkling blue eyes. I swear I'd never seen anyone equal parts of to-die-for good looks and boy-next-door troublemaker. "I was going to come out there and kiss it and make it better." He threw back his head and laughed, and the stadium erupted once more. I was aware that every moment between us was being broadcast like some reality TV show, but for once, I didn't care how many people were staring. This was our moment. And I was so damn happy he wasn't hurt. "So you're okay, then?" I asked. "Takes a lot more than a shady illegal attack to keep me down." Behind him, the players were getting back to the game, rushing out onto the field, and the coach was yelling out orders. "I'll just go back to my seat, then," I said. He rushed forward and grabbed me off the railing. The crown cheered when he slid me down his body and pressed his lips to mine. It wasn't a chaste kiss. It was the kind of kiss that made me blush when I watched it on TV. But I kissed him back anyway. I got lost in him. When he pulled back, I said, "By the way, You're totally kicking ass out there." He chuckled and put me back on the railing and kept one hand on my butt as I climbed back over. Back in the stands, I gripped the cold metal and gave him a small wave. He'd been walking backward toward his team, but then he changed direction and sprinted toward me. In one graceful leap, he was up on the wall and leaning over the railing. "Love you," he half-growled and pressed a swift kiss to my lips. "Next touchdown's for you.

I leave a white and turbid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where'er I sail. The envious billows sidelong swell to whelm my track; let them; but first I pass.Yonder, by the ever-brimming goblet's rim, the warm waves blush like wine. The gold brow plumbs the blue. The diver sun—slow dived from noon,—goes down; my soul mounts up! she wearies with her endless hill. Is, then, the crown too heavy that I wear? this Iron Crown of Lombardy. Yet is it bright with many a gem; I, the wearer, see not its far flashings; but darkly feel that I wear that, that dazzlingly confounds. 'Tis iron—that I know—not gold. 'Tis split, too—that I feel; the jagged edge galls me so, my brain seems to beat against the solid metal; aye, steel skull, mine; the sort that needs no helmet in the most brain- battering fight! Dry heat upon my brow? Oh! time was, when as the sunrise nobly spurred me, so the sunset soothed. No more. This lovely light, it lights not me; all loveliness is anguish to me, since I can ne'er enjoy. Gifted with the high perception, I lack the low, enjoying power; damned, most subtly and most malignantly! damned in the midst of Paradise! Good night, good night!

Watching eyes That later become waiting enemies Vanquished with the cross On holy ground Spear of Michael and Barbed arrow Of St. Sebastian —- Flies tipped with flame through skin And burns though all human sin. Retribution lands With the blunt weight of a blessed two handed hammer Into the side of a helmeted skull and into bruised clavicle. Now in this battle of the ages, we invoke the Unmovable resolve of St Joan To deliver a victory against all odds And at all costs. Patron of the soldier And witness to the faith Dirt-covered Gauntlet of the Paladin, Light of the soul that overpowers disbelief and disdain, You are the clerics of tomorrow. Wearing the crown of creation Anointed by this prayer And this anthem. - Glory of The Long Forgotten Crusader

When she was done, the blacksmith looked her over and nodded, then reached below his table to place another object on its surface. For a heartbeat, Manon only stared at the crowned helmet. It had been forged of the same dark metal, the nose and brow guards fashioned so that most of her face would be in shadow—save for her mouth. And her iron teeth. The six lances of the crown jutted upward like small swords. A conqueror’s helm. A demon’s helm. Manon felt the eyes of her Thirteen, now armed, upon her as she tucked her braid into the neck of her armor and lifted the helmet over her head. It fitted easily, its interior cool against her hot skin. Even with the shadows that hid most of her face, she could see the blacksmith with perfect clarity as his chin dipped in approval. She had no idea why she bothered, but Manon found herself saying, “Thank you.

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.

The cabin; by the stern windows; Ahab sitting alone, and gazing out. I leave a white and turbid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where'er I sail. The envious billows sidelong swell to whelm my track; let them; but first I pass. Yonder, by the ever-brimming goblet's rim, the warm waves blush like wine. The gold brow plumbs the blue. The diver sun— slow dived from noon—goes down; my soul mounts up! she wearies with her endless hill. Is, then, the crown too heavy that I wear? this Iron Crown of Lombardy. Yet is it bright with many a gem; I the wearer, see not its far flashings; but darkly feel that I wear that, that dazzlingly confounds. 'Tis iron—that I know—not gold. 'Tis split, too—that I feel; the jagged edge galls me so, my brain seems to beat against the solid metal; aye, steel skull, mine; the sort that needs no helmet in the most brain-battering fight! Dry heat upon my brow? Oh! time was, when as the sunrise nobly spurred me, so the sunset soothed. No more. This lovely light, it lights not me; all loveliness is anguish to me, since I can ne'er enjoy. Gifted with the high perception, I lack the low, enjoying power; damned, most subtly and most malignantly! damned in the midst of Paradise! Good night—good night! (waving his hand, he moves from the window.) 'Twas not so hard a task. I thought to find one stubborn, at the least; but my one cogged circle fits into all their various wheels, and they revolve. Or, if you will, like so many ant-hills of powder, they all stand before me; and I their match. Oh, hard! that to fire others, the match itself must needs be wasting! What I've dared, I've willed; and what I've willed, I'll do! They think me mad— Starbuck does; but I'm demoniac, I am madness maddened! That wild madness that's only calm to comprehend itself! The prophecy was that I should be dismembered; and—Aye! I lost this leg. I now prophesy that I will dismember my dismemberer. Now, then, be the prophet and the fulfiller one. That's more than ye, ye great gods, ever were. I laugh and hoot at ye, ye cricket-players, ye pugilists, ye deaf Burkes and blinded Bendigoes! I will not say as schoolboys do to bullies—Take some one of your own size; don't pommel me! No, ye've knocked me down, and I am up again; but ye have run and hidden. Come forth from behind your cotton bags! I have no long gun to reach ye. Come, Ahab's compliments to ye; come and see if ye can swerve me. Swerve me? ye cannot swerve me, else ye swerve yourselves! man has ye there. Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents' beds, unerringly I rush! Naught's an obstacle, naught's an angle to the iron way! CHAPTER

The night is filled with intermittent panicked shouts and pained wails, followed by the occasional laughter of an Evrallonic soldier. Fury warms me and I don’t feel the bite of the wintry air anymore, but I control my rage, filter and focus it, so that when two soldiers run past me, chasing after a young boy, I am able to act swiftly. I step out of the shadows and grab the first soldier by the hair, which has been left exposed after he either discarded or dropped his helmet. He opens his mouth to shout but it dies on his lips when I slit his throat, dropping him to the ground as he chokes. The soldier chasing the boy stops and turns around, drawing his sword upon seeing me. It’s the last thing he does. Before he moves an inch, I’ve thrown my dagger into his forehead. A wave of shock rolls through the soldiers body and I walk past him, snatching the blade from his skull just before he falls to the ground. The boy has disappeared but he’s none of my concern now. I move through the community like the wraith I’ve been labeled. Anyone wearing soldier’s attire is brought to their knees and left to die in the streets. Fishing families scurry out of my way like they know who I am and take refuge in their homes as I make my way to the other side of the community. An Evrallonic soldier stands on the doorstep of a home, hovering over a young woman whose blouse has been torn. The young woman is sobbing, her body trembling under the pressing soldier. The Evrallonic man is leaning towards her when I approach. He barely has time to look up before I’ve brought my knee up and connected it with his nose. The satisfying crack sounds through the air and the soldier shouts in disbelief, holding his nose. He drops his hand a moment later and unsheathes his sword, swinging a deadly strong blow at me. I sidestep and place my foot between his, easily knocking him to the ground when he trips over me. His sword spills from his hands and I snatch it up, jabbing it through the man’s chest before he can even utter a plea for mercy.

I never saw the King—I did not expect to, yet a tiny part of me, the part which imagined him leading his troops with raven plumes blown back from a silver helmet, was disappointed. The King cloistered himself in his castle, it was said, surrounded on all sides by rivers, one white, and one black. It sounded like a child’s story, and in the days to come I wondered if there had ever been a King, if we were not simply marching and fighting and digging and eating horrors of worm and centipede and mud to keep starvation at our backs because someone, somewhere, had once simply dreamed of a King with a golden crown.

Try these," she suggested. She held out a pair of simple long gauntlets that were almost as fine as gloves, chain underneath and plate on top. Aurora Rose carefully took off the ones she wore and slipped the others on. They fit perfectly. "This is a bit more your style," the blue one said, approaching her with a breastplate that was almost as big as she was. It was curved femininely to fit Aurora Rose's body, but not ridiculously so. A staid design of roses and thorns was inlaid along the sides. It was sturdy, and 'heavy.' The princess had to readjust the way she stood to support it while everyone helped buckle it on the back. "And for the top..." the red one said, looking around. "Let 'her' choose," the green one suggested gently. Aurora Rose walked down the aisle slowly, getting used to the weight of the armor. She passed each of the women and then Phillip- dashing in his shining cuirass and silver-white greaves, like a soldier from ancient Rome. Her eyes swept over everything, everywhere, pausing nowhere. Golden helms, intricate onyx headpieces, spiked and dangerous-looking crowns, plated metal turbans. Finally, she saw what she wanted. She strode forward and lifted a helmet- one she 'knew' would fit- off the top shelf. A point came down the middle of the forehead to protect her nose- and was also vaguely reminiscent of Maleficent's headpiece. But instead of horns, silver wings swept back over the ears. With slow, sure movements she put it on. It 'did' fit. Perfectly. She turned around to show the others. Phillip sucked in his breath. "You look 'magnificent,' Rose. Like- like an ancient goddess of war." "Like victory," the green one said softly.

So what else can you take from me, Gidge?” Crown continues, stalking over to the helmet and picking it back up. He moves over to me and very carefully places it over my head. “All of it. Take it all. Because the only time I like who I am, is when I’m with you.

Until the Day of Judgment my sword shall not see its scabbard; my horse beneath me will be my throne, my feet will be nowhere but in the stirrups, and my crown will be my helmet. I shall not sleep or rest until I have taken my revenge; the rivers flow with less water than my eyes flow with tears. May the king’s soul be resplendent among his glorious peers, and may you comfort yourselves with the knowledge of God’s justice, so that your hearts find peace. We are all born for death; we belong to death, and we have given our heads into its keeping.

At the last, Viserys looked at her. "Sister, please...Dany, tell them...make them...sweet sister..." When the gold was half-melted and starting to run, Drogo reached into the flames, snatched out the pot. "Crown!" he roared. "Here. A crown for Cart King!" And upended the pot over the head of the man who had been her brother. The sound Viserys Targaryen made when that hideous iron helmet covered his face was like nothing human. His feet hammered a frantic beat against the dirt floor, slowed, stopped. Thick globs of molten gold dripped down onto his chest, setting the scarlet silk to smoldering...yet no drop of blood was spilled. He was no dragon, Dany thought, curious calm. Fire cannot kill a dragon.

Richard appeared shortly, an officer bearing his helmet with the golden crown. In the graying darkness his face was startlingly livid, attenuated... He noticed their looks of concern. If he appeared pale, he told them quickly, it was only because he had slept little, troubled by dreams. He stood listening to the sounds of his stirring camp - clash of harness, twarnging of bowstrings, horses neighing and stamping. It was gray in the east. In the west gave promise of being warm and clear. Gloomily Richard looked at his faithful followers. There was something, he said at last, that he must tell them. The battle this day - no matter who won it - would prove to be destruction to the England they knew. If Henry Tudor was the victor, he would crush all the supporters of the House of York and rule by fear. If he, Richard, conquered, he would be equally ruthless and would use force to govern the kingdom. A moment after he had ceased speaking, one of his squires reported, falteringly, that there were no chaplains in the camp to say divine service. Richard replied that it was as he intended. If their quarrel were God's, they needed no last supplication; if it were not, such prayers were idle blasphemy.

On inauguration day, April 30, the people filled the streets leading to Federal Hall. The crowd’s enthusiasm was in no way lessened by the absence of pageantry common to similar celebrations for the Crown of England and other heads of state in the Old World: No purple sashes, gold braids, or plumed helmets appeared anywhere in the President-elect’s entourage. He himself wore a simple dark-brown suit made of broadcloth sent to him as a gift by a mill in Hartford, a pointed demonstration of America’s newfound industrial capability after years of British-imposed prohibition on domestic manufacture. His jacket had steel buttons embossed with eagles, and his only concession to the occasion

We are directed to take the helmet of salvation—and this, not for some particular occasion and then hang it by till another extraordinary strait calls us to take it down and use it again—but we must take it so as never to lay it aside till God shall take off this helmet to put on a crown of glory in the room of it.

We round the frangipani, coming face-to-face with two peacocks---one male, with magnificent iridescent plumage sparkling in royal blues, greens, and golden browns, not to mention the circular eyespots, his crown a crest of feathers resembling a helmet. The female, although beautiful, has drabber plumage and a short tail. Garrance beams as the large birds greet her like dogs. "Meet Yin and Yang," she says, and Juju rolls onto his back. "These two are the only ones who tolerate Juju and vice versa." "Maybe because they don't call him names," I say with a laugh, and Garrance joins me.

Eärendil was a mariner that tarried in Arvernien; he built a boat of timber felled in Nimbrethil to journey in; her sails he wove of silver fair, of silver were her lanterns made, her prow was fashioned like a swan, and light upon her banners laid. In panoply of ancient kings, in chainéd rings he armoured him; his shining shield was scored with runes to ward all wounds and harm from him; his bow was made of dragon-horn, his arrows shorn of ebony; of silver was his habergeon, his scabbard of chalcedony; his sword of steel was valiant, of adamant his helmet tall, an eagle-plume upon his crest, upon his breast an emerald. Beneath the Moon and under star he wandered far from northern strands, bewildered on enchanted ways beyond the days of mortal lands. From gnashing of the Narrow Ice where shadow lies on frozen hills, from nether heats and burning waste he turned in haste, and roving still on starless waters far astray at last he came to Night of Naught, and passed, and never sight he saw of shining shore nor light he sought. The winds of wrath came driving him, and blindly in the foam he fled from west to east and errandless, unheralded he homeward sped. There flying Elwing came to him, and flame was in the darkness lit; more bright than light of diamond the fire upon her carcanet. The Silmaril she bound on him and crowned him with the living light and dauntless then with burning brow he turned his prow; and in the night from Otherworld beyond the Sea there strong and free a storm arose, a wind of power in Tarmenel; by paths that seldom mortal goes his boat it bore with biting breath as might of death across the grey and long forsaken seas distressed; from east to west he passed away.

If it had been Morise, even if it hadn’t been Morise. I had to work hard to free myself from my feeling that he was the lord of the city and its shaykh, on whose crown falcons dozed, because everything in Seattle pointed to him and led toward him—each detail and sign. He did not merely dwell in this city; he was its creator, who had woven it from warp and woof. He had re-created it and then shaken the dust off it as if it were a carpet from Tabriz. Everything in the city carried his signature and his fingerprint: the joyful queues on weekends at pot stores, the empty seats in outdoor cafés sprinkled by drops of rain, girls’ colorful wool caps, tech workers’ badges dangling to their laps, the panting of elderly Asians climbing its heights… the spoons of busy restaurants clicking against the teeth of children of wealthy Indians, the helmets of cyclists who pause to look at the tranquility of the Japanese Garden, the sigh of buses as they lower a lift for an elderly white woman in a wheelchair, the roars of laughter of Saudi teens in the swimming pools of the University…all these tell his story. Everything glorifies his name.

When Shan was fifteen years old, dark soldiers come out of the west, like a cloud of evil boiling over the soft hills of his homeland. They commanded terrible beasts, which killed with hooked claws like scythes and cold eyes that dripped icy fire. The soldiers wore helmets that looked like fiends, tusked and snarling and sneering.

The greatest monarch the earth hath will be glad, in a dying hour, to change his crown for thy helmet.  His crown will not procure him this helmet, but thy helmet will bring thee to a crown, when he shall have none to wear—a crown, not of gold, but of glory, which once on shall never be taken off, as his is sure to be.

Next he placed on his head the fur-rimmed Crown (or Cap) of Monomakh, embellished with rubies and emeralds, and handed him the orb and sceptre. Michael sat on the throne of Monomakh. The Cap had never been owned by the Byzantine emperor Constantine Monomakh who gave it his name, but was a royal Mongol helmet, adapted in the fourteenth century, while the wooden throne, carved with lions and Byzantine scenes, had actually been built for Ivan the Terrible.

Rapunzel, I'm not anything heroic or wonderful or whatever you thought," he said sadly. "I'm a sneak thief mostly out for my own good. The rest of it's a lie. My name isn't even Flynn Rider." "Um, what?" Of all the many things she thought he might say, this was not one of them. "My real name is Eugene Fitzherbert. At least, that was what was on record at the orphanage." There might have been a glint from inside a guard's helmet at that, as if he couldn't help sniggering a little. Rapunzel's jaw actually fell open. "Eugene?" she asked. "Yes." "And doesn't Fitz mean--" "Yes, it does," he interrupted in annoyance. "But who knows if that's really my family name, or a real name, or whatever. I think of myself as Flynn Rider. Daring hero, escape artist, adventurer extraordinaire... Eugene is someone who wastes away in an orphanage, who nobody wants. Eugene eats porridge once or twice a day, maybe, and wears the old clothes that bigger kids grew out of a generation ago." "I like Eugene," Rapunzel protested, patting his hand. "I like it better than Flynn. It sounds more... real. Like who you really are." "Thanks," he muttered. "No, really! Eugene doesn't abandon his friends. Eugene makes snarky remarks... and then hangs around witchy goat farms to see how he can help. Eugene pauses his wild, adventurous life to make sure the people around him get their happy endings. Eugene gives crowns back to their rightful owners." "Eugene winds up drained of his blood in a castle ruled by a demonic she-beast," Flynn said, looking up to gauge his captors' possibly violent response. They didn't move. "Flynn Rider is somewhere off riding into the sunset--" "Without his princess," Rapunzel interrupted, hands on hips. Flynn smiled sadly at her.