Majestic Place Quotes

It’s a thorny road for dreamers and poets who fantasize of majestic places and deep-seated desires of the heart that their hands may never hold.

The sky above me was clear, brilliant with stars, glowing blue in some places, yellow in others. The stars created majestic, swirling shapes against the black backdrop of the empty universe

What is that which can never die It is that faithful force that is born into us that one that is greater than us that calls new seed to the open and battered and barren places so that we can be resown. It is this force in its insistence in its loyalty to us in its love of us in its most often mysterious ways that is far greater far more majestic and far more ancient than any heretofore ever known.

I had a mind to make a body of more or less connected legend, ranging from the large and cosmogonic, to the level of romantic fairy-story - the larger founded on the lesser in contact with the earth, the lesser drawing splendour from the vast backcloths - which I could dedicate simply to: to England; to my country. ... I would draw some of the great tales in fullness, and leave many only placed in the scheme, and sketched. The cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands, wielding paint and music and drama.

It is the fate of great achievements, born from a way of life that sets truth before security, to be gobbled up by you and excreted in the form of shit. For centuries great, brave, lonely men have been telling you what to do. Time and again you have corrupted, diminished and demolished their teachings; time and again you have been captivated by their weakest points, taken not the great truth, but some trifling error as your guiding principal. This, little man, is what you have done with Christianity, with the doctrine of sovereign people, with socialism, with everything you touch. Why, you ask, do you do this? I don't believe you really want an answer. When you hear the truth you'll cry bloody murder, or commit it. … You had your choice between soaring to superhuman heights with Nietzsche and sinking into subhuman depths with Hitler. You shouted Heil! Heil! and chose the subhuman. You had the choice between Lenin's truly democratic constitution and Stalin's dictatorship. You chose Stalin's dictatorship. You had your choice between Freud's elucidation of the sexual core of your psychic disorders and his theory of cultural adaptation. You dropped the theory of sexuality and chose his theory of cultural adaptation, which left you hanging in mid-air. You had your choice between Jesus and his majestic simplicity and Paul with his celibacy for priests and life-long compulsory marriage for yourself. You chose the celibacy and compulsory marriage and forgot the simplicity of Jesus' mother, who bore her child for love and love alone. You had your choice between Marx's insight into the productivity of your living labor power, which alone creates the value of commodities and the idea of the state. You forgot the living energy of your labor and chose the idea of the state. In the French Revolution, you had your choice between the cruel Robespierre and the great Danton. You chose cruelty and sent greatness and goodness to the guillotine. In Germany you had your choice between Goring and Himmler on the one hand and Liebknecht, Landau, and Muhsam on the other. You made Himmler your police chief and murdered your great friends. You had your choice between Julius Streicher and Walter Rathenau. You murdered Rathenau. You had your choice between Lodge and Wilson. You murdered Wilson. You had your choice between the cruel Inquisition and Galileo's truth. You tortured and humiliated the great Galileo, from whose inventions you are still benefiting, and now, in the twentieth century, you have brought the methods of the Inquisition to a new flowering. … Every one of your acts of smallness and meanness throws light on the boundless wretchedness of the human animal. 'Why so tragic?' you ask. 'Do you feel responsible for all evil?' With remarks like that you condemn yourself. If, little man among millions, you were to shoulder the barest fraction of your responsibility, the world would be a very different place. Your great friends wouldn't perish, struck down by your smallness.

The Voyager We are all lonely voyagers sailing on life's ebb tide, To a far off place were all stripling warriors have died, Sometime at eve when the tide is low, The voices call us back to the rippling water's flow, Even though our boat sailed with love in our hearts, Neither our dreams or plans would keep heaven far apart, We drift through the hush of God's twilight pale, With no response to our friendly hail, We raise our sails and search for majestic light, While finding company on this journey to the brighten our night, Then suddenly he pulls us through the reef's cutting sea, Back to the place that he asked us to be, Friendly barges that were anchored so sweetly near, In silent sorrow they drop their salted tears, Shall our soul be a feast of kelp and brine, The wasted tales of wishful time, Are we a fish on a line lured with bait, Is life the grind, a heartless fate, Suddenly, "HUSH", said the wind from afar, Have you not looked to the heavens and seen the new star, It danced on the abyss of the evening sky, The sparkle of heaven shining on high, Its whisper echoed on the ocean's spray, From the bow to the mast they heard him say, "Hope is above, not found in the deep, I am alive in your memories and dreams when you sleep, I will greet you at sunset and with the moon's evening smile, I will light your path home.. every last lonely mile, My friends, have no fear, my work was done well, In this life I broke the waves and rode the swell, I found faith in those that I called my crew, My love will be the compass that will see you through, So don't look for me on the ocean's floor to find, I've never left the weathered docks of your loving mind, For I am in the moon, the wind and the whale's evening song, I am the sailor of eternity whose voyage is not gone.

We are born and have our being in a place of memory. We chart our lives by everything we remember from the mundane moment to the majestic. We know ourselves through the art and act of remembering. Memories offer us a world where there is no death, where we are sustained by rituals of regard and recollection

If I had to pick two words to describe Edinburgh, I would tell you that it's majestic and beautiful. Really, really old, but somehow more alive than any other place I've ever been.

Music is a holy place, a cathedral so majestic that we can sense the magnificence of the universe, and also a hovel so simple and private that none of us can plumb its deepest secrets.

I thought, There is nowhere else in the universe I would rather be at this moment. I could count all the places I would not rather be. I’ve always wanted to see New Zealand, but I’d rather be here. The majestic ruins of Machu Picchu? I’d rather be here. A hillside in Cuenca, Spain, sipping coffee and watching leaves fall? Not even close. There is nowhere else I could imagine wanting to be besides here in this car, with this girl, on this road, listening to this song. If she breaks my heart, no matter what hell she puts me through, I can say it was worth it, just because of right now. Out the window is a blur and all I can really hear is this girl’s hair flapping in the wind, and maybe if we drive fast enough the universe will lose track of us and forget to stick us somewhere else.

Homer, in the second book of the Iliad says with fine enthusiasm, "Give me masturbation or give me death." Caesar, in his Commentaries, says, "To the lonely it is company; to the forsaken it is a friend; to the aged and to the impotent it is a benefactor. They that are penniless are yet rich, in that they still have this majestic diversion." In another place this experienced observer has said, "There are times when I prefer it to sodomy." Robinson Crusoe says, "I cannot describe what I owe to this gentle art." Queen Elizabeth said, "It is the bulwark of virginity." Cetewayo, the Zulu hero, remarked, "A jerk in the hand is worth two in the bush." The immortal Franklin has said, "Masturbation is the best policy." Michelangelo and all of the other old masters--"old masters," I will remark, is an abbreviation, a contraction--have used similar language. Michelangelo said to Pope Julius II, "Self-negation is noble, self-culture beneficent, self-possession is manly, but to the truly great and inspiring soul they are poor and tame compared with self-abuse." Mr. Brown, here, in one of his latest and most graceful poems, refers to it in an eloquent line which is destined to live to the end of time--"None knows it but to love it; none name it but to praise.

Music is a holy place, a cathedral so majestic that we can sense the magnificence of the universe.

I live completely without regret. Sure there are plenty of things that someone could second guess, but I see the path of life like driving down the road without a map. The thing is, some dark alleys open up in majestic places, and some bright and shiny highways to the top end in cliffs to the bottom. You never know until you get there. What I know for sure is that if many years ago I actually had a map to the path of life, the destination that I would have chosen is right here, with this family, in this place, and with these smiles. That makes anything that could have been regretful, the best decision in the world.

He gripped her chin and forced her to look at him. “You’re a thistle, Helen. Tough and spiky and able to flourish in a rocky, brutal place. You draw blood with your prickers. But a thistle also has a flower. A rich, purple, majestic flower, like a crown.

general-purpose majestic half smile.

They recruited the most supple and athletic of the cops to train as mounted policemen, and a small kid could be mesmerized just watching one who’d been lazing majestically down the street stop to write a parking ticket and then lean way over in the saddle so as to place the ticket under the car’s windshield wiper, a physical gesture, if ever there was one, of magnificent condescension to the machine age.

What infinite heart's-ease Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy! And what have kings, that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idle ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers? What are thy rents? what are thy comings in? O ceremony, show me but thy worth! What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree and form, Creating awe and fear in other men? Wherein thou art less happy being fear'd Than they in fearing. What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness, And bid thy ceremony give thee cure! Think'st thou the fiery fever will go out With titles blown from adulation? Will it give place to flexure and low bending? Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee, Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream, That play'st so subtly with a king's repose; I am a king that find thee, and I know 'Tis not the balm, the sceptre and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced title running 'fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world, No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body fill'd and vacant mind Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread; Never sees horrid night, the child of hell, But, like a lackey, from the rise to set Sweats in the eye of Phoebus and all night Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn, Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse, And follows so the ever-running year, With profitable labour, to his grave: And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country's peace, Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace, Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

I have seen," he said, "the most beautiful scenes of my own country; I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy mountains descend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting black and impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance, were it not for the most verdant islands that relieve the eye by their gay appearance; I have seen this lake agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore up whirlwinds of water, and gave you an idea of what the waterspout must be on the great ocean; and the waves dash with fury the base of the mountain, where the priest and his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche, and where their dying voices are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind; I have seen the mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud: but this country, Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders. The mountains of Switzerland are more majestic and strange; but there is a charm in the banks of this divine river, that I never before saw equalled. Look at that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and that also on the island, almost concealed amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and now that group of labourers coming from among their vines; and that village half hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely, the spirit that inhabits and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man than those who pile the glacier, or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the mountains of our own country. "Clerval! beloved friend! even now it delights me to record your words, and to dwell on the praise of which you are so eminently deserving. He was a being formed in the "very poetry of nature." His wild and enthusiastic imagination was chastened by the sensibility of his heart.

If a majestic tree has to fall, may it be so a family or two has a place to eat. Resources are precious.

Then two dark figures appeared. One of them, tall, majestic, stern, sat down near the table on which Van Baerle had placed the taper.

All Carolina folk are crazy for mayonnaise, mayonnaise is as ambrosia to them, the food of their tarheeled gods. Mayonnaise comforts them, causes the vowels to slide more musically along their slow tongues, appeasing their grease-conditioned taste buds while transporting those buds to a place higher than lard could ever hope to fly. Yellow as summer sunlight, soft as young thighs, smooth as a Baptist preacher's rant, falsely innocent as a magician's handkerchief, mayonnaise will cloak a lettuce leaf, some shreds of cabbage, a few hunks of cold potato in the simplest splendor, restyling their dull character, making them lively and attractive again, granting them the capacity to delight the gullet if not the heart. Fried oysters, leftover roast, peanut butter: rare are the rations that fail to become instantly more scintillating from contact with this inanimate seductress, this goopy glory-monger, this alchemist in a jar. The mystery of mayonnaise-and others besides Dickie Goldwire have surely puzzled over this_is how egg yolks, vegetable oil, vinegar (wine's angry brother), salt, sugar (earth's primal grain-energy), lemon juice, water, and, naturally, a pinch of the ol' calcium disodium EDTA could be combined in such a way as to produce a condiment so versatile, satisfying, and outright majestic that mustard, ketchup, and their ilk must bow down before it (though, a at two bucks a jar, mayonnaise certainly doesn't put on airs)or else slink away in disgrace. Who but the French could have wrought this gastronomic miracle? Mayonnaise is France's gift to the New World's muddled palate, a boon that combines humanity's ancient instinctive craving for the cellular warmth of pure fat with the modern, romantic fondness for complex flavors: mayo (as the lazy call it) may appear mild and prosaic, but behind its creamy veil it fairly seethes with tangy disposition. Cholesterol aside, it projects the luster that we astro-orphans have identified with well-being ever since we fell from the stars.

In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

This place might have been paradise, a treasure trove far greater than any to be found in a pirate yarn. Everywhere he looked there were books. They rose into the air in majestic columns, stacks and stacks of them forming a maze that seemed to stretch to forever; the stacks rose high into the air and disappeared towards the unseen ceiling. The air had the overwhelming smell of old books, of polished leather, and yellowing leaves, like the smell of a bookshop or a public library magnified a thousand-fold.

The Son radiates God’s own glory and expresses the very character of God, and he sustains everything by the mighty power of his command. When he had cleansed us from our sins, he sat down in the place of honor at the right hand of the majestic God in heaven.

Do not laugh! But once upon a time (my crest has long since fallen) I had a mind to make a body of more or less connected legend, ranging from the large and cosmogonic, to the level of romantic fairy-story – the larger founded on the lesser in contact with the earth, the lesser drawing splendour from the vast backcloths – which I could dedicate simply to: to England; to my country. It should possess the tone and quality that I desired, somewhat cool and clear, be redolent of our ‘air’ (the clime and soil of the North West, meaning Britain and the hither parts of Europe: not Italy or the Aegean, still less the East), and, while possessing (if I could achieve it) the fair elusive beauty that some call Celtic (though it is rarely found in genuine ancient Celtic things), it should be ‘high’, purged of the gross, and fit for the more adult mind of a land long now steeped in poetry. I would draw some of the great tales in fullness, and leave many only placed in the scheme, and sketched. The cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands, wielding paint and music and drama. Absurd. Of course, such an overweening purpose did not develop all at once. The mere stories were the thing. They arose in my mind as ‘given’ things, and as they came, separately, so too the links grew. An absorbing, though continually interrupted labour (especially since, even apart from the necessities of life, the mind would wing to the other pole and spend itself on the linguistics): yet always I had the sense of recording what was already ‘there’, somewhere: not of ‘inventing’. Of course, I made up and even wrote lots of other things (especially for my children). Some escaped from the grasp of this branching acquisitive theme, being ultimately and radically unrelated: Leaf by Niggle and Farmer Giles, for instance, the only two that have been printed. The Hobbit, which has much more essential life in it, was quite independently conceived: I did not know as I began it that it belonged. But it proved to be the discovery of the completion of the whole, its mode of descent to earth, and merging into ‘history’. As the high Legends of the beginning are supposed to look at things through Elvish minds, so the middle tale of the Hobbit takes a virtually human point of view – and the last tale blends them.

The funeral was a vast, elaborate affair, befitting a monarch or head of state, in marked contrast to the essential simplicity of the man honored. The grandeur emphasized the central place that Grant had occupied in the Civil War and its aftermath. “Out of all the hubbub of the war,” wrote Walt Whitman, “Lincoln and Grant emerge, the towering majestic figures.”146 He thought they had lived exemplary lives that vindicated the American spirit, showing how people lifted from the lower ranks of society could attain greatness.

The mountains of Switzerland are more majestic and strange, but there is a charm in the banks of this divine river that I never before saw equalled. Look at that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and that also on the island, almost concealed amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and now that group of labourers coming from among their vines; and that village half hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely the spirit that inhabits and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man than those who pile the glacier or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the mountains of our own country.

Whispering Pines, Palmetto Groves, Majestic Manor, Golden Gables, Century Village, Martin Downs, Sunburn Acres, Twin Beavers, or Sunset Farts. Who gives a shit? It’s the same old Florida crap. However these places get named, rest assured, the more lyrical the moniker, the more of a sunblasted, cookie-cutter nightmare the place will be.

Tallent notes that the days surrounding the death are marked not by keening or weeping but instead by a "dignified, almost majestical, sense of quiet and contemplation. The deceased's immediate family continues to go about their daily rituals, but their silence, their lack of chatter in this busy, intimate community, is a ritual in itself, and the other villagers give them peace until the bereaved signal their intention to return to the life of the community. Sometimes this silent mourning takes only days; sometimes it takes months. But it is a remarkable demonstration of being absent in a place so intensely present, of being granted solitude while surrounded by many

Few arborists would suggest planting trees on a three-foot center, but if we planted our trees in groups of three or more on ten-foot centers, the resulting root matrix would keep them locked in place through thick and thin. None of the trees would develop into a single majestic specimen tree, but together they would form a single grove of trees that the eye will take in just as if they were one large tree. Planting tree groves will also protect against the domino effect. Every time we take down a tree, we make the remaining trees more vulnerable to straight-line winds. There is one catch to this approach, however: the trees must be planted young, so their roots can interlock as they grow.

The gates were thrown open by their companions upon guard, and by the domestics of the old court, who had already formed a secret conspiracy against the life of the too virtuous emperor. On the news of their approach, Pertinax, disdaining either flight or concealment, advanced to meet his assassins; and recalled to their minds his own innocence, and the sanctity of their recent oath. For a few moments they stood in silent suspense, ashamed of their atrocious design, and awed by the venerable aspect and majestic firmness of their sovereign, till at length, the despair of pardon reviving their fury, a barbarian of the country of Tongress levelled the first blow against Pertinax, who was instantly despatched with a multitude of wounds. His head, separated from his body, and placed on a lance, was carried in triumph to the Prætorian camp, in the sight of a mournful and indignant people, who lamented the unworthy fate of that excellent prince, and the transient blessings of a reign, the memory of which could serve only to aggravate their approaching misfortunes.

Sometimes I find it difficult to determine whether or not I'm merely spinning my wheels or making progress. Nevertheless, I must keep moving on until I reach a destination. For I would much rather be in perpetual motion with the promise of reaching some place majestic beyond the horizon, rather than sitting idle alongside a dirt road watching time hurriedly pass me by.

Tomás shudders. He lifts his head. A breeze is blowing. In whatever direction he looks, there is majestic normalcy: wild growth here, tilled fields over there, the road, the sky, the sun. Everything is in its place, and time is moving with its usual discretion. Then, in an instant, without any warning, a little boy tripped everything up. Surely the fields will notice; they will rise, dust themselves, and come closer to take a concerned look. The road will curl up like a snake and make sad pronouncements. The sun will darken with desolation. Gravity itself will be upset and objects will float in existential hesitation. But no. The fields remain still, the road continues to lie hard and fixed, and the morning sun does not stop shining with unblinking coolness.

The emphasis usually falls on the past splendour rather than on the subsequent decline. Medieval and nineteenth-century man agreed that their present was no very admirable age; not to be compared (said one) with the glory that was, not to be compared (said the other) with the glory that is still to come. The odd thing is that the first view seems to have bred on the whole a more cheerful temper. Historically as well as cosmically, medieval man stood at the foot of a stairway; looking up, he felt delight. The backward, like the upward, glance exhilarated him with a majestic spectacle, and humility was rewarded with the pleasures of admiration. And, thanks to his deficiency in the sense of period, that packed and gorgeous past was far more immediate to him than the dark and bestial past could ever be to a Lecky or a Wells. It differed from the present only by being better. Hector was like any other knight, only braver. The saints looked down on one’s spiritual life, the kings, sages, and warriors on one’s secular life, the great lovers of old on one’s own amours, to foster, encourage, and instruct. There were friends, ancestors, patrons in every age. One had one’s place, however modest, in a great succession; one need be neither proud nor lonely. I

O Fabricius! What would your great soul have thought, if to your own misfortune you had been called back to life and had seen the pompous face of this Rome saved by your efforts and which your honourable name had distinguished more than all its conquests? 'Gods,' you would have said, 'what has happened to those thatched roofs and those rustic dwelling places where, back then, moderation and virtue lived? What fatal splendour has succeeded Roman simplicity? What is this strange language? What are these effeminate customs? What do these statues signify, these paintings, these buildings? You mad people, what have you done? You, masters of nations, have you turned yourself into the slaves of the frivolous men you conquered? Are you now governed by rhetoricians? Was it to enrich architects, painters, sculptors, and comic actors that you soaked Greece and Asia with your blood? Are the spoils of Carthage trophies for a flute player? Romans, hurry up and tear down these amphitheatres, break up these marbles, burn these paintings, chase out these slaves who are subjugating you, whose fatal arts are corrupting you. Let other hands distinguish themselves with vain talents. The only talent worthy of Rome is that of conquering the world and making virtue reign there. When Cineas took our Senate for an assembly of kings, he was not dazzled by vain pomp or by affected elegance. He did not hear there this frivolous eloquence, the study and charm of futile men. What then did Cineas see that was so majestic? O citizens! He saw a spectacle which your riches or your arts could never produce, the most beautiful sight which has ever appeared under heaven, an assembly of two hundred virtuous men, worthy of commanding in Rome and governing the earth.

After we've stuffed ourselves, we scatter around the living room, falling into a comfortable quiet. The living room is a majestic place - I mean, it is massive - with vaulted log ceilings and old wood floors covered in wide woven rugs. Along one long wall, the fire crackles and snaps, heating the room to just below too warm. It's wood from town and nothing smells like it. I want to find a candle of this, incense, room spray. I want every living room in every house I live in for the rest of time to smell like the Hollis cabin does on December evenings. The hearth is expansive; when we were about seven, our chore was sweeping out the fireplace at the end of the holiday, Theo and I could almost stand up inside it. The flames actually roar to life. Even once they mellow into a rumbling, crackling simmer, the blaze still feels like a living, breathing creature in here with us.

After making sure that the terrain would be undisputedly its own, the sun slowly and majestically emerged from its resting place and established absolute dominion in a matter of seconds, blissfully unaware that its conquest would not last for more than a day. Its swift triumph was marked by an explosion of radiance which overawed nature for a brief moment; therewith an orgy of birdsong, corrupted by sporadic and pretentious cocks' crowing, marked the beginning of another day.

Here in the labyrinth, I struggle to find words to describe what I feel. Up on the mountaintop, I knew the language to describe God: majestic, transcendent, all-powerful, heavenly Father, Lord, and King. In this vocabulary, God remains stubbornly located in a few select places, mostly in external realms above or beyond: heaven, the church, doctrine, or the sacraments. What happens in the labyrinth seems vague, perhaps even theologically elusive. Like countless others, I have been schooled in vertical theology. Western culture, especially Western Christianity, has imprinted a certain theological template upon the spiritual imagination: God exists far off from the world and does humankind a favor when choosing to draw close. Sermons declared that God’s holiness was foreign to us and sin separated us from God. Yes, humanity was made in God’s image, but we had so messed things up in the Garden of Eden that any trace of God in us was obscured, if not destroyed. Whether conservative or liberal, most American churches teach some form of the idea that God exists in holy isolation, untouched by the messiness of creation, and that we, God’s children, are morally and spiritually filthy, bereft of all goodness, utterly unworthy to stand before the Divine Presence. In its crudest form, the role of religion (whether through revivals, priesthood, ritual, story, sacraments, personal conversion, or morality) is to act as a holy elevator between God above and those muddling around down below in the world.

As a teenager with morbid proclivities, my only real social outlets in Hawai’i were the gothic and S&M fetish clubs with names like “Flesh” and “The Dungeon” that took place on Saturday nights in warehouses down by the airport. My friends and I, all uniform-wearing private-school girls by day, would tell our parents we were having a sleepover and instead change into black vinyl ball gowns we ordered off the Internet. Then we’d go to the clubs and get tied to iron crosses and publicly flogged amid puffing fog machines. After the clubs closed at two a.m. we’d go into a twenty-four-hour diner called Zippy’s, invariably get called “witches” by some confused late-night patrons, wash off our makeup in the bathroom, and sleep for a few hours in my parents’ car. Since I was also on my school’s competitive outrigger canoe paddling team, the next morning I would have to peel off the vinyl ball gown and paddle in the open ocean for two hours as dolphins leapt majestically next to our boat. Hawai’i is an interesting place to grow up.

Sometimes, she said, she could recognize a place just by the quality of the light. In Lisbon, the light at the end of spring leans madly over the houses, white and humid, and just a little bit salty. In Rio de Janeiro, in the season that the locals instinctively call ‘autumn’, and that the Europeans insist disdainfully is just a figment of their imagination, the light becomes gentler, like a shimmer of silk, sometimes accompanied by a humid grayness, which hangs over the streets, and then sinks down gently into the squares and gardens. In the drenched land of the Pantanal in Mato Grosso, really early in the morning, the blue parrots cross the sky and they shake a clear, slow light from their wings, a light that little by little settles on the waters, grows and spreads and seems to sing. In the forests of Taman Negara in Malaysia, the light is like a liquid, which sticks to your skin, and has a taste and a smell. It’s noisy in Goa, and harsh. In Berlin the sun is always laughing, at least during those moments when it manages to break through the clouds, like in those ecological stickers against nuclear power. Even in the most unlikely skies, Ângela Lúcia is able to discern shines that mustn’t be forgotten; until she visited Scandinavia she’d believed that in that part of the world during the winter months light was nothing but the figment of people’s imagination. But no, the clouds would occasionally light up with great flashes of hope. She said this, and stood up, adopting a dramatic pose: ‘And Egypt? In Cairo? Have you ever been to Cairo?… To the pyramids of Giza?…’ She lifted her hands and declaimed: ‘The light, majestic, falls; so potent, so alive, that it seems to settle on everything like a sort of luminous mist.

We believe in America, where the most precious cultural enduring legacy is etched into the hearts of humble enlightened descendants of revolutionists, immigrants, people of an oppressed to fight for independence and destitute freedom lovers to come together under one elevated flag, one noble heart, one unified awe-inspiring voice and one majestic nation of the United States Of America in recognizing the humanity, freedom, liberty to reveal a sacred place where no dream is too big and no dreamer is too small, forevermore. God bless America, the miracle of fortitude and infinite hope.

All right,” he said slowly, as if he’d only just made up his mind about something. “You win. I’ve decided to help you.” Serilda’s heart lifted, filling fast with untethered hope. “In exchange,” he continued, “for this.” He pointed a finger at her. His sleeve slipped back toward his elbow, revealing a ghastly knot of scar tissue above his wrist. Serilda gaped at his extended arm, momentarily speechless. He was pointing at her heart. She stepped back and placed a protective hand to her chest, where she could feel her heartbeat thudding underneath. Her gaze lingered on his hand, as if he might reach into her chest and tear out the beating organ at any moment. He didn’t exactly look like one of the dark ones, with their majestic figures and flawless beauty, but he didn’t look half-faded like a ghost either. He seemed harmless enough, but she couldn’t trust anyone in this castle. The boy frowned, confused at her reaction. Then understanding hit him and he dropped his hand with a roll of his eyes. “Not your heart”, he said, exasperated. “That locket.” Oh. That. Her hand shifted to the chain around her neck. She gripped the locket, still hanging open, in her fist. “It will hardly suit you.” “Strongly disagree. Besides, there’s something familiar about her.

My mouth kept dropping open, and I would choke on road dust as the city loomed ever closer. When I glanced over at Elka, she was in the same state—wide-eyed and torn between fear and wonderment. Everything seemed like something out of legend. In the shadow of the soaring walls, the city became less of an imposing majestic place and more a heaped, jumbled gathering of wealth and squalor existing side by side. Heady perfumes and the stink of offal wrapped around each other, woven into an overwhelming tapestry by the ocean breeze. Wicker cages full of fowl and small game swung from carts, squawking and chittering excitedly, filling the air with a haze of fur and feathers. Tens and tens of incomprehensible languages rang in my ears. Houses and temples and other buildings made of stone—structures that made my father’s great hall seem like a sheepherder’s hut—rose above the street, level upon level. All of it—the sights and sounds and smells—tangled together into an assault on my senses that made me want to clap my hands over my ears and hide my head. But there was no escaping the chaos as our cart plunged on, heading right toward the very heart of Massilia. With only the bars of my cage between me and the pushing, shoving, singing, shouting crowd, I’d never felt so vulnerable.

The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams, ocean, and all the living things that dwell within the daedal earth; lightning, and rain, earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane, the torpor of the year when feeble dreams visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep holds every future leaf and flower; the bound with which from that detested trance they leap; the works and ways of man, their death and birth, and that of him and all that his may be; all things that move and breathe with toil and sound are born and die; revolve, subside, and swell. Power dwells apart in its tranquillity, remote, serene, and inaccessible: and this, the naked countenance of earth, on which I gaze, even these primeval mountains teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains, slow rolling on; there, many a precipice frost and the sun in scorn of mortal power have pil'd: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle, a city of death, distinct with many a tower and wall impregnable of beaming ice. Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin is there, that from the boundaries of the sky rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing its destin'd path, or in the mangled soil branchless and shatter'd stand; the rocks, drawn down from yon remotest waste, have overthrown the limits of the dead and living world, never to be reclaim'd. The dwelling-place of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil; their food and their retreat for ever gone, so much of life and joy is lost. The race of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream, and their place is not known. Below, vast caves shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam, which from those secret chasms in tumult welling meet in the vale, and one majestic river, the breath and blood of distant lands, for ever rolls its loud waters to the ocean-waves, breathes its swift vapours to the circling air.

From that point of view he gazed at the Oriental beauty he had not seen before. It seemed strange to him that his long-felt wish, which had seemed unattainable, had at last been realized. In the clear morning light he gazed now at the city and now at the plan, considering its details, and the assurance of possessing it agitated and awed him. "But could it be otherwise?" he thought. "Here is this capital at my feet. Where is Alexander now, and of what is he thinking? A strange, beautiful, and majestic city; and a strange and majestic moment! In what light must I appear to them!" thought he, thinking of his troops. "Here she is, the reward for all those fainthearted men," he reflected, glancing at those near him and at the troops who were approaching and forming up. "One word from me, one movement of my hand, and that ancient capital of the Tsars would perish. But my clemency is always ready to descend upon the vanquished. I must be magnanimous and truly great. But no, it can't be true that I am in Moscow," he suddenly thought. "Yet here she is lying at my feet, with her golden domes and crosses scintillating and twinkling in the sunshine. But I shall spare her. On the ancient monuments of barbarism and despotism I will inscribe great words of justice and mercy… . It is just this which Alexander will feel most painfully, I know him." (It seemed to Napoleon that the chief import of what was taking place lay in the personal struggle between himself and Alexander.) "From the height of the Kremlin—yes, there is the Kremlin, yes—I will give them just laws; I will teach them the meaning of true civilization, I will make generations of boyars remember their conqueror with love. I will tell the deputation that I did not, and do not, desire war, that I have waged war only against the false policy of their court; that I love and respect Alexander and that in Moscow I will accept terms of peace worthy of myself and of my people. I do not wish to utilize the fortunes of war to humiliate an honored monarch. 'Boyars,' I will say to them, 'I do not desire war, I desire the peace and welfare of all my subjects.' However, I know their presence will inspire me, and I shall speak to them as I always do: clearly, impressively, and majestically. But can it be true that I am in Moscow? Yes, there she lies.

I thought, There is nowhere else in the universe I would rather be at this moment. I could count the places I would not rather be. I’ve always wanted to see New Zealand, but I’d rather be here. The majestic ruins of Machu Picchu? I’d rather be here. A hillside in Cuenca, Spain, sipping coffee and watching leaves fall? Not even close. There is nowhere else I could imagine wanting to be besides here in this car, with this girl, on this road, listening to this song. If she breaks my heart, no matter what the hell she puts me through, I can say it was worth it, just because of right now. Out the window is a blur and all I can really hear is this girl’s hair flapping in the wind, and maybe if we drive fast enough the universe will lose track of us and forget to stick us somewhere else.

They pray. To whom? To God. To pray to God, - what is the meaning of these words? Is there an infinite beyond us? Is that infinite there, inherent, permanent; necessarily substantial, since it is infinite; and because, if it lacked matter it would be bounded; necessarily intelligent, since it is infinite, and because, if it lacked intelligence, it would end there? Does this infinite awaken in us the idea of essence, while we can attribute to ourselves only the idea of existence? In other terms, is it not the absolute, of which we are only the relative? At the same time that there is an infinite without us, is there not an infinite within us? Are not these two infinites (what an alarming plural!) superposed, the one upon the other? Is not this second infinite, so to speak, subjacent to the first? Is it not the latter's mirror, reflection, echo, an abyss which is concentric with another abyss? Is this second infinity intelligent also? Does it think? Does it love? Does it will? If these two infinities are intelligent, each of them has a will principle, and there is an "I" in the upper infinity as there is an "I" in the lower infinity. The "I" below is the soul; the "I" on high is God. To place the infinity here below in contact, by the medium of thought, with the infinity on high, is called praying. Let us take nothing from the human mind; to suppress is bad. We must reform and transform. Certain faculties in man are directed towards the Unknown; thought, revery, prayer. The Unknown is an ocean. What is conscience? It is the compass of the Unknown. Thought, revery, prayer, - these are great and mysterious radiations. Let us respect them. Whither go these majestic irradiations of the soul? Into the shadow; that is to say, to the light.

There was a single window that tapered into a funnel, with eerie moonlight passing through it, reflecting directly off the globe like a mirror. For a moment, as I rose I saw something glimmering within. Dumbly, with feverish whispers assailing me, I realized it was the center of one of the distant galaxies, flaring after some unknown cataclysm. Its radiance was such that it burst from its prison. It met the moonlight halfway. It created kaleidoscopic colours on the walls. Then, in answer, the reliefs transformed from majestic art into something approaching divine, alive, plays from Egyptian memory, given the spark of life from space. I saw animal-headed gods move. They stepped from the walls to take their place around the altar. All stared at the globe. Each raised their arms in silent supplication. And such was their toxic ecstasy that I wished to join them, to forget my dreadful experiences and revel in something truly wondrous.

Upon the King! Let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children, and our sins, lay on the King! We must bear all. O hard condition, Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel But his own wringing! What infinite heart's ease Must kings neglect that private men enjoy! And what have kings that privates have not too, Save ceremony- save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers? What are thy rents? What are thy comings-in? O Ceremony, show me but thy worth! What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men? Wherein thou art less happy being fear'd Than they in fearing. What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness, And bid thy ceremony give thee cure! Thinks thou the fiery fever will go out With titles blown from adulation? Will it give place to flexure and low bending? Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee, Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream, That play'st so subtly with a king's repose. I am a king that find thee; and I know 'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced tide running fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world- No, not all these, thrice gorgeous ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave Who, with a body fill'd and vacant mind, Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread; Never sees horrid night, the child of hell; But, like a lackey, from the rise to set Sweats in the eye of Pheebus, and all night Sleeps in Elysium; next day, after dawn, Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse; And follows so the ever-running year With profitable labour, to his grave. And but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country's peace, Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

As a rule, in times of joy and elation, one finds God's footsteps in the majesty and grandeur of the cosmos, in its vastness and its stupendous dynamics. When man is drunk with life, when he feels that living is a dignified affair, then man beholds God in infinity. In moments of ecstasy God addresses Himself to man through the twinkling stars and the roar of the endlessly distant heavens: ברכי נפשי את ד’, ד’ אלקים, גדלת מאד, הוד והדר לבשת "O Lord my God Thou are very great, Thou are clothed with glory and majesty." In such moments, Majestas Dei, which not even the vast universe is large enough to accommodate, addresses itself to happy man. However, with the arrival of the dark night of the soul, in moments of agony and black despair, when living becomes ugly and absurd; plainly nauseating, when man loses his sense of beauty and majesty, God addresses him, not from infinity but from the infinitesimal, not from the vast stretches of the universe but from a single spot in the darkness which surrounds suffering man, from within the black despair itself... God, in those moments, appeared not as the exalted, majestic King, but rather as a humble, close friend, brother, father: in such moments of black despair, He was not far from me; He was right there in the dark room; I felt His warm hand, כביכול. on my shoulder, I hugged His knees, כביכול. He was with me in the narrow confines of a small room, taking up no space at all. God's abiding in a fenced-in finite locus manifests His humility and love for man. In such moments Humilitas Dei, which resides in the humblest and tiniest of places, addresses itself to man.

Tinker Bell, meanwhile, was drifting with purpose up to the highest leafy branches of the jungle. Her light glowed warmly off the leaves below, the droplets seeping off their thick veins, the sweet sap running down the trunks of the trees. It made the whole clearing look... Well, like it was touched by fairies, Wendy thought with a smile. All her life she had looked for fairies in more mundane places, experiencing a rush of hope and warmth whenever a scene even palely imitated the one before here now. Candles at Christmas, fireflies in the park, flickering lamps in teahouses. The sparkling leaded glass windows of a sweets shop on winter afternoons when dusk came at four. A febrile, glowing crisscross of threads on a rotten log her cousin had once shown her out in the country: fox fire, magical mushrooms. And here it was, for real! Tinker Bell was performing what appeared to be a slow and majestic dance. First, she moved to specific points in the air around her, perhaps north, south, east, and west, twirling a little at each stop. Then she flew back to the center and made a strange bowing motion, keeping her tiny feet daintily together and putting her arms out gracefully like a swan. As she completed each movement, fairy dust fell from her wings in glittering, languorous trails, hanging in the air just long enough to form shapes. She started the dance over again, faster this time. And again even faster. Her trail of sparkles almost resolved into a picture, crisscrossed lines constantly flowing slowly down like drips of luminous paint. Wendy felt a bit like John, overwhelmed with a desire to try to reduce and explain and thereby translate the magic. But she also felt a lot like Michael, with an almost overwhelming urge to break free from her hiding place and see it up close, to feel the sparkles on her nose, to run a hand through the sigils not for the purpose of destruction but form a hapless, joyful desire to be part of it all.

Elephanta caves, Mumbai-- I entered a world made of shadows and sudden brightness. The play of the light, the vastness of the space and its irregular form, the figures carved on the walls: all of it gave the place a sacred character, sacred in the deepest meaning of the word. In the shadows were the powerful reliefs and statues, many of them mutilated by the fanaticism of the Portuguese and the Muslims, but all of them majestic, solid, made of a solar material. Corporeal beauty, turned into living stone. Divinities of the earth, sexual incarnations of the most abstract thought, gods that were simultaneously intellectual and carnal, terrible and peaceful. ............................................................................ Gothic architecture is the music turned to stone; one could say that Hindu architecture is sculpted dance. The Absolute, the principle in whose matrix all contradictions dissolve (Brahma), is “neither this nor this nor this.” It is the way in which the great temples at Ellora, Ajanta, Karli, and other sites were built, carved out of mountains. In Islamic architecture, nothing is sculptural—exactly the opposite of the Hindu. The Red Fort, on the bank of the wide Jamuna River, is as powerful as a fort and as graceful as a palace. It is difficult to think of another tower that combines the height, solidity, and slender elegance of the Qutab Minar. The reddish stone, contrasting with the transparency of the air and the blue of the sky, gives the monument a vertical dynamism, like a huge rocket aimed at the stars. The mausoleum is like a poem made not of words but of trees, pools, avenues of sand and flowers: strict meters that cross and recross in angles that are obvious but no less surprising rhymes. Everything has been transformed into a construction made of cubes, hemispheres, and arcs: the universe reduced to its essential geometric elements. The abolition of time turned into space, space turned into a collection of shapes that are simultaneously solid and light, creations of another space, made of air. There is nothing terrifying in these tombs: they give the sensation of infinity and pacify the soul. The simplicity and harmony of their forms satisfy one of the most profound necessities of the spirit: the longing for order, the love of proportion. At the same time they arouse our fantasies. These monuments and gardens incite us to dream and to fly. They are magic carpets. Compare Ellora with the Taj Mahal, or the frescoes of Ajanta with Mughal miniatures. These are not distinct artistic styles, but rather two different visions of the world.

Hebrews 1 Jesus Christ Is God’s Son Long ago God spoke many times and in many ways to our ancestors through the prophets. 2 And now in these final days, he has spoken to us through his Son. God promised everything to the Son as an inheritance, and through the Son he created the universe. 3 The Son radiates God’s own glory and expresses the very character of God, and he sustains everything by the mighty power of his command. When he had cleansed us from our sins, he sat down in the place of honor at the right hand of the majestic God in heaven.

Zion National Park is a place where history deepens one's appreciation for beauty of the canyon. Visitors marvel at the pioneering spirit of those who created an oasis in the arid desert. In many languages, tourists note their fascination with the engineering of the tunnel and wonder how trails to remote reaches of the park were constructed. Even when water was scarce and prospects were dim. early Mormon pioneers remained vigilant in their quest to settle at the mouth of Zion Canyon because their leader Brigham Young, told them that the time would come when 'Hundreds of thousands will pass through your canyon and they will need you.' The majestic wonders of Zion existed long before humans ever set foot in the canyon, yet it was only through ingenuity and foresight of the area's early settlers that the canyon was opened to the world.

Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory in the heavens. 2 Through the praise of children and infants you have established a stronghold against your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger. 3 When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, 4 what is mankind that you are mindful of them, human beings that you care for them?[c] 5 You have made them[d] a little lower than the angels[e] and crowned them[f] with glory and honor. 6 You made them rulers over the works of your hands; you put everything under their[g] feet: 7 all flocks and herds, and the animals of the wild, 8 the birds in the sky, and the fish in the sea, all that swim the paths of the seas. 9 Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!

To my mind early June is the most beautiful time of the year in Haines, for spring comes late and June is the transition period from spring to summer; but September is lovely too, and I have seen still, crisp days in October which I would not have exchanged for any other day in the year. It is often beautiful in winter, when the snow lies untrodden and sparkling upon the uplands and every twig on every tree is rimed with frost, and there are days in March when the wind blows cold and clear and great clouds sail majestically across the blue sky. But I could go on forever, finding its peculiar beauty in every month, so perhaps the truth of the matter is that Haines is my home and in my opinion there is no place like it.

When I am having a bad day or a difficult moment, in my mind's eye I often return to the soothing images of the sea. I recall the roar of the surf as it explodes over ancient volcanic rock formations that decorate the majestic Oregon coastline. Gorgeous waves roll in endlessly and disperse impressively over the the sandal-covered beach front. I invite you to go to your secret place and allow your spirit to dance with the magical visions of inspiration you perceive.

From these sources we find out that he is the greatest being there is: transcendent and supremely majestic, perfectly loving and perfectly righteous, the unlimited, all-knowing, and all-powerful Creator and Redeemer, the unfathomable source of goodness, truth, beauty, and love. The corollary of this revelation is, of course, that we are not this being. We can look pretty important, compared to rocks, trees, and cows. But compared to the greatest being there is—and the source of all that is other than himself—we realize that we are actually profoundly insignificant, situated in one place and time, with extremely limited abilities and skills, and vulnerable to sickness, injury, and eventual death. Perspective is so important.

The moment I wished every sentence, everything I knew, that began with England would end with “and then it all died, we don’t know how, it just all died” was when I saw the white cliffs of Dover. I had sung hymns and recited poems that were about a longing to see the white cliffs of Dover again. At the time I sang the hymns and recited the poems, I could really long to see them again because I had never seen them at all, nor had anyone around me at the time. But there we were, groups of people longing for something we had never seen. And so there they were, the white cliffs, but they were not that pearly majestic thing I used to sing about, that thing that created such a feeling in these people that when they died in the place where I lived they had themselves buried facing a direction that would allow them to see the white cliffs of Dover when they were resurrected, as surely they would be. The white cliffs of Dover, when finally I saw them, were cliffs, but they were not white; you would only call them that if the word “white” meant something special to you; they were dirty and they were steep; they were so steep, the correct height from which all my views of England, starting with the map before me in my classroom and ending with the trip I had just taken, should jump and die and disappear forever.

Jihadists trace their struggle to conquer the world for Allah from 632 AD. In light of those many centuries, what’s another year, or two, or ten, in the struggle to place Sharia Law in all nations’ law books and to place the Muslim flag above every capitol city in the world? The confiscated War Manual says the “main mission of the Islamic movement (is to) overthrow godless regimes” and replace them with “an Islamic regime” for the purpose of “establishing the religion of majestic Allah on earth.”  The War Manual states: “Islamic governments have never and will never be established through peaceful solutions…They are established as they always have been…by pen and gun…by word and bullet…by tongue and teeth… Islam does not make a truce with unbelief, but rather confronts it. It knows the dialogue of bullets.

In the dawn of this new phase in redemptive history, no teachers (including Jesus) in the New Testament ever promise material welath as a reward for obedience...we also see no verse in the New Testament where God's people are ever again commanded to build a majestic place to worship. Instead God's people are told to be the temple - the place of worship. And their possessions are to be spent on building, not a place where people can come to see God's glory, but a people who are taking God's glory to the world.

Ramana Maharshi’s message was clear—we must first seek to understand ourselves. Without knowledge of our superior spiritual nature, we will remain tied to the trivial and mundane. In our present bodily consciousness, our situation is like the eagle in the story below. An eagle’s egg was placed amid a brood of chickens. Thinking it to be one of their own, the hens lovingly hatched it along with their own eggs. Consequently, the baby eagle which emerged from it grew up in the company of little chicks. The result was ‘monkey see, monkey do’. The chicks would say, ‘Cluck, cluck, cluck’, and the baby eagle would also cackle along. The chicks would flutter their wings and hop clumsily on the ground. The eagle would do the same, unaware of its God-given ability to fly at altitudes of 10,000 feet above the ground. One day, an adult eagle flew by. The baby eagle looked at it with amazement, and exclaimed, ‘Wow, what a majestic bird! How is it flying at such a glorious height with so much elegance?’ ‘That is an eagle’, replied the chickens. ‘It is the king of birds; naturally, its abilities are far greater. We cannot do what it can do.’ The baby eagle believed the chickens’ sermon, and it continued its pathetic life, fluttering and cackling like them. What a pity! It was born to rule the skies but had become conditioned to flutter on the ground. Like the eagle, we too were fashioned to sparkle in the magnificence of our spirit but became illusioned to wallow in the mediocrity of bodily conceptions. As a poet said: phūla chunane āye the bāge-hayāt meṅ, khāra jhāra meṅ dāmana ulaphā kara raha gaye ‘We had come to pluck flowers from the garden of life, but in the ensuing hustle and bustle of human existence, we ended up entangled in thorns.’ On realizing our soul nature, what becomes our potential? The next section provides the answer. The

The bright moon reflects your radiant face Your snowcapped cheekbones supply water of grace My heavy heart desires an audience with your face Come forward or must return, your command I will embrace. Nobody for good measures girded your fields Such trades no one in their right mind would chase. Our dormant fate will never awake, unless You wash its face and shout brace, brace! Send a bouquet of your face with morning breeze Perhaps inhaling your scent, your fields we envision & trace. May you live fulfilled and long, O wine-bearer of this feast Though our cup was never filled from your jug or your vase. My heart is reckless, please, let Beloved know Beware my friend, my soul your soul replace. O God, when will my fate and desires hand in hand Bring me to my Beloved hair, in one place? Step above the ground, when you decide to pass us by On this path lie bloody, the martyrs of human race. Hafiz says a prayer, listen, and say amen May your sweet wine daily pour upon my lips and my face. O breeze tell us about the inhabitants of city of Yazd May the heads of unworthy roll as a ball in your polo race. Though we are far from friends, kinship is near We praise your goodness and majestic mace. O Majesty, may we be touched by your grace I kiss and touch the ground that is your base

Gasping Stars Look Down Upon My Tired Soul When I need to again find my own way late midnight walks are my mainstay There is this place I walk and roam comfort away from worries of my home The sidewalk ends and fields begin I imagine they stretch and never end Cool night air soothes my tired brain far away, whistle of an old night train My pace slows to soak so much more in I am not alone, night is my friend Gasping stars look down upon my soul Seeking calm, I then reach my goal Dog barks sadly as I slowly trod by moans so blue, almost seems to cry Past the farmhouse my favorite tree massive black oak, does so comfort me Gazing at its massive majestic form I see damage from a terrible storm Ahh yes, none are immune from harm not even this great titan on the farm Very slowly I turn to find my way back retracing this walk along this track A calm has now found my lonely spirit happiness approaches I can even hear it My pace increases as I seek to return to the place where my love does burn Family , the gift of my very long life my children, my love , my sweet wife When I need to again find my own way late midnight walks are my mainstay

scenes from the Legends of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table many lovely pictures have been painted, showing much diversity of figures and surroundings, some being definitely sixth-century British or Saxon, as in Blair Leighton’s fine painting of the dead Elaine; others—for example, Watts’ Sir Galahad—show knight and charger in fifteenth-century armour; while the warriors of Burne Jones wear strangely impracticable armour of some mystic period. Each of these painters was free to follow his own conception, putting the figures into whatever period most appealed to his imagination; for he was not illustrating the actual tales written by Sir Thomas Malory, otherwise he would have found himself face to face with a difficulty. King Arthur and his knights fought, endured, and toiled in the sixth century, when the Saxons were overrunning Britain; but their achievements were not chronicled by Sir Thomas Malory until late in the fifteenth century. Sir Thomas, as Froissart has done before him, described the habits of life, the dresses, weapons, and armour that his own eyes looked upon in the every-day scenes about him, regardless of the fact that almost every detail mentioned was something like a thousand years too late. Had Malory undertaken an account of the landing of Julius Caesar he would, as a matter of course, have protected the Roman legions with bascinet or salade, breastplate, pauldron and palette, coudiére, taces and the rest, and have armed them with lance and shield, jewel-hilted sword and slim misericorde; while the Emperor himself might have been given the very suit of armour stripped from the Duke of Clarence before his fateful encounter with the butt of malmsey. Did not even Shakespeare calmly give cannon to the Romans and suppose every continental city to lie majestically beside the sea? By the old writers, accuracy in these matters was disregarded, and anachronisms were not so much tolerated as unperceived. In illustrating this edition of “The Legends of King Arthur and his Knights,” it has seemed best, and indeed unavoidable if the text and the pictures are to tally, to draw what Malory describes, to place the fashion

In places, the drop was just a little ripple—a fall of some five feet or so. But in others, majestic waterfalls plunged fifty feet or more before pounding onto the next stone platform. It looked like a man-made effect, for the various split streams and waterfalls eventually ran back together into the river, which flowed away from the city toward distant Elendel.

Nobody knows how old Petra is, but it was a thriving city when Abraham left Ur of the Chaldees, and for a full five thousand years it has had but that one entrance, through a gorge that narrows finally until only one loaded camel at a time can pass. Army after army down the centuries have tried to storm the place, and failed, so that even the invincible Alexander and the Romans had to fall back on the arts of friendship to obtain the key. We, the last invaders, came as friends, if only Grim could persuade the tyrant to believe it. The sun rose over the city just as we reached the narrowest part of the gut, Grim leading, and its first rays showed that we were using the bed of a watercourse for a road. Exactly in front of us, glimpsed through a twelve-foot gap between cliffs six hundred feet high, was a sight worth going twice that distance, running twice that risk, to see—a rose-red temple front, carved out of the solid valley wall and glistening in the opalescent hues of morning. Not even Burkhardt, who was the first civilized man to see the place in a thousand years, described that temple properly; because you can’t. It is huge—majestic—silent—empty—aglow with all the prism colors in the morning sun. And it seems to think.

O LORD, our Lord, your majestic name fills the earth!        Your glory is higher than the heavens. 2 You have taught children and infants        to tell of your strength,[*]   silencing your enemies        and all who oppose you. 3 When I look at the night sky and see the work of your fingers—        the moon and the stars you set in place— 4 what are mere mortals that you should think about them,        human beings that you should care for them?[*] 5 Yet you made them only a little lower than God[*]        and crowned them[*] with glory and honor. 6 You gave them charge of everything you made,        putting all things under their authority— 7 the flocks and the herds        and all the wild animals, 8 the birds in the sky, the fish in the sea,        and everything that swims the ocean currents. 9 O LORD, our Lord, your majestic name fills the earth!

It was Friday 17th December, a week before Christmas. New York City was a majestic place during the summer but it was equally captivating in the winter.

February 2013 My Email to Andy (Part One)   My chance encounter with Max was both a blessing and an affliction. After I’d checked into the majestic lady, The Oriental, hunger hit my rumbling stomach. I needed to savour some authentic Thai food. Unfortunately, the moment I stepped out of the hotel’s door, I was confronted by the harsh reality of Bangkok’s civic life. As at Don Mueang International Airport, rows of local taxi drivers lined the hotel’s periphery, ready to debauch the first customer that ventured out without soliciting The Oriental’s private limo service.                Again, I found myself surrounded by a barrage of locals offering me the best bargain on transportation to my destination. Who should come to my rescue but the same driver that had deposited Max and me? In the foulest Thai vernacular he could master, he repulsed those who challenged him. The vultures scattered, allowing me to embark in his not-so-new sedan. ”Where you want go sir?” he asked. ”Take me to an excellent place for local food,” I replied. ”I take you to good place, sir,” he responded and sped off into the dark. The question of whether I wanted a sexy girl to accompany me during my Bangkok stay arose again. I refused his offer with politeness. The man rephrased his query: “You want boy? I take you to good boy-bar.” I shook my head, yet he continued to pester me for an answer. We bantered back and forth, I not revealing my sexual preference while he used every contrivance to solicit an answer. Instead of delivering me to the city’s hub, he headed in the opposite direction towards a suburb that had almost no street lights. Worrisome thoughts of robbery and murder had begun to plague me when the vehicle finally came to a halt at a two-storied house in the middle of nowhere.

We are a only on this majestic earth for a brief and short period of time in history. Why not use this time in kindness to make humanity a better and brighter place for all❤

We are a only on this majestic earth for a brief and short period time but of history. Why not use this time in kindness to make humanity a better and brighter place for all❤

Do a cartwheel, Tania,” said Dimitri with his hand on her back. “Show us what you can do.” “Yes, Tania!” Dasha said. “Come on. This is the perfect place for it, don’t you think? Here in front of a majestic palace, fountains, lawn, gardenias blooming—” “Germans in Minsk,” said Tatiana, trying not to look at Alexander, lying on the blanket on his side, propped up by his elbow. He looked so casual, so familiar, so… And yet, at the same time, utterly untouchable and unattainable. “Forget the Germans,” Dimitri said. “This is the place for love.” That’s what Tatiana was afraid of. “Come on, Tania,” Alexander said softly, sitting up and crossing his legs. “Let’s see these famous cartwheels.” He lit a cigarette. Dasha prodded her. “You never say no to a cartwheel.” Tatiana wanted to say no today. Sighing, she got up from their old blanket. “Fine. Though, frankly, I don’t know what kind of a queen I’d make, doing cartwheels for my subjects.” Tatiana was wearing a dress, not the dress but a casual pink sundress. Walking a few meters away from them, she said, “Are you ready?” And from a distance she saw Alexander’s eyes swallowing her. “Watch,” she said, putting her right foot forward. She flung herself upside down on her right arm, swinging her body in a perfect arc around onto her left arm and then her left foot, and then, without taking a breath and with her hair flying, Tatiana whirled around again, and again and again in an empyrean circle, down a straight trajectory on the grass toward the Great Palace, toward childhood and innocence, away from Dimitri and Dasha and Alexander. As she walked back, her face flushed and her hair everywhere, she allowed herself a glance at Alexander’s face. Everything she had wanted to see was there.

wheat-complexioned face. Average sized, dark eyes flanked a straight nose. He wore his hair long like most Meluhan men and women. The head bore a majestic crown with the sun symbol of the Suryavanshis manifested in the centre through sparkling gem stones. His clothes consisted of an elegantly draped dhoti and an angvastram placed over his right shoulder. A large amount of functional jewellery, including two amulets on his right arm, complemented Daksha’s average appearance. His only distinguishing feature was his smile — which spread its innocent conviction all the way to his eyes. Emperor Daksha looked like a man who wore his royalty lightly. ‘Yes

On a June afternoon in 1791, George Washington, Andrew Ellicott, and Peter Charles L’Enfant rode east from Georgetown “to take,” so Washington recorded in his diary, “a more perfect view of the ground” of the new federal city. From David Burnes’s fields they surveyed the prospect of the Potomac River, and then, continuing east across the Tiber Creek, they climbed to the crest of Jenkins Hill. With the confluence of the Eastern Branch and the Potomac, the cities of Alexandria and Georgetown, and the hills of Maryland and Virginia spread majestically before them, the time had come, the president wrote, “to decide finally on the spots on which to place the public buildings.” From their vantage point on Jenkins Hill, L’Enfant presented his vision of a city worthy of the new republic. He began by siting the two principal buildings: the “Congress House,” as he called it, would command Jenkins Hill, “a pedestal waiting for a superstructure”; the “President’s Palace,” L’Enfant’s name for today’s White House, would rise about a mile away on the land partially belonging to David Burnes. A star of avenues each named for a state would radiate from the center of each house. Pennsylvania Avenue—the name would honor the state’s importance in the nation’s creation—would connect the two buildings. It would be “a direct and large avenue,” 180 feet wide and lined with a double row of trees. These radiating avenues would intersect at circles and squares, to be named for heroes, and they would overlay a grid of streets similar to that of Philadelphia.

Camden in the winter of 1954 was a bleak place. It is difficult to see it this way if you’ve only been there in the summer, but most of Maine can be dismal, especially along the coast, during the long nights and short days. Once the colorful leaves have fallen from the majestic maple trees, and the last tourist has gone home, things become grim. So it was, during that cold January day, when I was on the road hoping to get a ride to New Jersey. On the radio, the weather forecasters predicted an overnight blizzard, but here it was only late afternoon and snow was already accumulating on the road. This would be my last opportunity to get home to see my family and friends, before cruising back on down to the Caribbean. I had really hoped to get an earlier start, to get far enough south to miss the brunt of the storm. Maine is known for this kind of weather, and the snowplows and sanders were ready. In fact, I didn’t see many other vehicles on the road any longer. Schools had let out early and most businesses were closed in anticipation of the storm. My last ride dropped me off in Belfast, telling me that he was trying to get as far as Augusta, before State Road 3 became impassable. Standing alongside the two-lane coastal highway with darkness not far off, I was half thinking that I should turn back. My mind was made up for me when I stepped back off the road, making room for a big State DOT dump truck with a huge yellow snowplow. His airbrakes wheezed as he braked, coming to a stop, at the same time lifting his plow to keep from burying me. The driver couldn’t believe that I was out hitchhiking in a blizzard. This kind of weather in Maine is no joke! The driver told me that the year before a body had been found under a snow bank during the spring thaw. Never mind, I was invincible and nothing like that could happen to me, or so I thought. He got me as far as Camden and suggested that I get a room. “This storm is only going to get worse,” he cautioned as I got off. I waved as he drove off. Nevertheless, still hoping that things would improve, I was determined to continue…

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s- just for fun page came to life. Amidst this backdrop of shared heritage and collective dreams, Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of Leeton life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s- just for fun page came to life. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. Amidst this backdrop of shared heritage and collective dreams, Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of Leeton life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just As Cowboy went about his day, the people of Leeton watched, drawn by the familiar sight of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s- just for fun page came to life. Amidst this backdrop of shared heritage and collective dreams, Cowboy’s-just for fun page sprang to life on Facebook. A space crafted for his quotes, laughter, and the simple joys of Leeton life. It’s a corner of the internet that echoes Cowboy’s journey and the essence of a town that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a shared experience, a home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just As Cowboy went about his day, the people of Leeton watched, drawn by the familiar sight of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

In the heart of Missouri, where the land tells tales of time and toil, lies the town of Leeton. This place, founded in 1895 and named for J. J. Lee, is more than coordinates on a map; it’s a community where stories are woven into the very fabric of daily life. As dawn breaks, the sun casts a warm glow over Leeton’s historic buildings and the Rock Island Spur trailhead of the Katy Trail. The town may be small, with just over 500 souls, but its spirit is as boundless as the skies above, anchored in the values of hard work, resilience, and the warmth of neighborly love. Among the town’s cherished residents is a figure simply known as “Cowboy.” A man of action, his life is a testament to the Western ethos of helping others and living a life of integrity. Cowboy’s connection to Leeton runs deep; it’s not merely where he resides—it’s the community he actively shapes with his presence. Cowboy’s story is interwoven with Leeton’s rich history, the joyous sounds of children at play, the steadfastness of farmers in the fields, and the majestic sunsets that signal the end of each day. It was in this setting of close-knit ties and shared dreams that Cowboy’s- just for fun page came to life. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just As Cowboy went about his day, the people of Leeton watched, drawn by the familiar sight of a man who had made Leeton his hometown and who seemed to speak directly to their hearts through his actions. They observed, some with smiles, others with nods of respect, but all with a sense of pride for the town they loved. The story of Leeton, Missouri, is not just one of dates and facts. It’s a story of a community that thrives on connection, memories, and the enduring spirit of its people. And thanks to Cowboy, it’s a story that will be lived for generations to come, a timeless tribute to a place called home. And so, the legacy of Leeton lives on, not just in the pages of history, but in the footsteps of a cowboy, in the stories passed down from one generation to the next, and in the hearts of those who know it’s not just where they live—it’s who they are.

The great concepts of oneness and of majestic order seem always to be born in the desert. The quiet counting of the stars, and observation of their movements, came first from desert places.

Recordings of encephalographic electrical waves show, amid their jagged spikes and hieroglyph swirls, a signature downward dip signifying that a neuronal mandate for motion is under way: the so-called readiness wave. While the motor cortex produces motion, the readiness wave appears to signal intent. So we should look here for will. When experimenters placed their subjects in front of a clock, however, they found that the conscious experience of a decision to move occurs after the readiness wave has already passed. What we feel as the conscious spark of resolve in this case proves to be an afterthought, not the majestic nexus of initiative we might imagine. Just where and how the early glimmers of intention coalesce, like glittering dust motes into the swirling jinni of action, remains beyond the ken of today’s science. The more we discover, the more we find that we do not know.

He who had created worlds without number was about to enter a quiet, secluded garden, a humble plot of ground in his vast cosmic universe. There was no fanfare, no pressing throng to witness the most profound event his creations would ever know. This was a moment so sacred, so sublime, that no human eye could fully pierce, no human mind could fully comprehend its transcending importance. Only three other mortals—Peter, James and John—would be near, and even their witness would be tempered by the twilight and shrouded by sleep. The appointed hour was at hand. The Son of God stood alone in all his majestic power against all the artillery of the Evil One. Here was divine love in its consummate expression battling diabolic evil in its cruelest proportions. This was the place and the time for the atonement of Jesus Christ.

would draw some of the great tales in fullness, and leave many only placed in the scheme, and sketched. The cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands, wielding paint and music and drama. Absurd.

You can have your cake and eat it too! This is the bestselling formula that had Govinda marching in place for fifteen years; the promise that one can soar majestically as an eagle without actually leaving the nest. Virtual reality, I guess. Virtual spirituality. Virtual life.

If a majestic tree has to fall, may it be so a family or two has a place to eat. Precious are resources.

Some people loved the cities, with their culture, art, and endless opportunities for interesting social interaction. Some like the country, its simplicity and wide open spaces. But Alyssa Aronson only truly felt at peace when she was surrounded by the mightiest of earth’s living things. And with the possible exception of the Sequoia Forest in Northern California, teeming with trees that made the tallest, thickest specimens anywhere else look like adorable little babies, no place was more majestic than the Hoosier National Forest, two hundred thousand acres of soaring central hardwood trees, primarily oak and hickory.

Prayer How lovely is Your dwelling place, Father. It is there that My heart longs to be; learning of Your heart and Your ways, beholding Your majestic beauty. I repent for letting the busyness of life keep me from the most important thing—time spent in devotion to Christ, in purity and simplicity. Jesus, I don’t want to be a casual listener; I want to sit at Your feet and listen intently as You lovingly speak. Be it a loud trumpet call or a gentle whisper, I want to follow every leading of Your heart. Father, I ask for wisdom and revelation, that I may truly come to know Your Son. Holy Spirit, help me to apply my heart to understand the messages the Father conveys, such that they’ll penetrate and transform every part of me. Let my life be founded upon the wisdom of Your Word that would lead me to walk in the fear of the Lord, lay all else aside in yieldedness, and abide with You, my King. Jesus, I choose to slow down today and invite You in for a time to connect heart to heart. Once again, let me enjoy the pleasure of Your company. ————— (Prayer taken from: Psalm 27:4; Luke 10:38–42; 1 Kings 19:12–13; Proverbs 2; 2 Corinthians 11:3; Hebrews 12:1; John 15:1–11)

If heaven is the Lord's, the earth is the inheritance of man and consequently any honest traveller has the right to walk as he chooses, all over that globe which is his. What I heard was the thousand-year-old echo of thoughts which are re-thought over and over again in the East and which, nowadays, appear to have fixed their stronghold in the majestic heights of Thibet. I am one of the Genghis Khan race who, by mistake, and perhaps for her sins, was born in the Occident. So I was once told by a lama. I saw a wolf passing near us. It trotted by with the busy, yet calm gait of a serious gentleman going to attend to some affair of importance. The true Blissful Paradise which, being nowhere and everywhere, lies in the mind of each one of us. How happy I was to be there. en route for the mystery of these unexplored heights, alone in the great silence, "tasting the sweets of solitude and tranquility", as a passage of the Buddhist Scripture has it. Human credulity, be it in the East or in the West, has no limits. In India, the Brahmins have for centuries kept their countrymen to the opinion that offering presents to those belonging to their caste and feeding them, was a highly meritorious religious work. As a rule, the place where grain is ground is the cleanest in a Thibetan house. Asiatics do not feel, as we do, the need of privacy and silence in sleep.

It is not in our cities or townships, it is not in our agricultural or mining areas, that the Australian attains full consciousness of his own nationality; it is in places like this, and as clearly here as at the centre of the continent. To me the monotonous variety of this interminable scrub has a charm of its own; so grave, subdued, self-centred; so alien to the genial appeal of more winsome landscape, or the assertive grandeur of mountain and gorge. To me this wayward diversity of spontaneous plant life bespeaks an unconfined, ungauged potentiality of resource; it unveils an ideographic prophecy, painted by Nature in her Impressionist mood, to be deciphered aright only by those willing to discern through the crudeness of dawn a promise of majestic day.

Every morning they watched the daybreak coming over the mountains. And I am telling you, young people, do that some time. Get up at three o’clock in the morning and watch the daybreak come. Even in a place like this you see the morning star, and it moves up really fast, but years back when I was growing up, my father would wake me up and over on Whidbey Island would want me and all of us young people to watch the day come, watch the day come over the Cascade Mountains. It is a very beautiful, majestic sight.

Q clearance as well as Executive presidential, called MAJESTIC) approval. This is ironic, due to the fact that the President of the United States does not have clearance to visit the site. The alien bases and exchange of technology actually took place in an area code-named Dreamland above ground, and the underground portion was dubbed "the Dark Side of the Moon.

Since God has left the fingerprints of his wisdom everywhere, since there is no place where God does not furnish us with raw materials for godly thinking, Christians should be seized with a rambunctious curiosity to ponder his works, both the majestic and the mundane. The task of wisdom is joyfully to describe and investigate all God’s works. We may not be Solomons in insight, but we can gratefully examine the same data.

Such, nearly, was the state of the French theatre before the appearance of Voltaire. His knowledge of the Greeks was very limited, although he now and then spoke of them with enthusiasm, in order, on other occasions, to rank them below the more modern masters of his own nation, including himself still, he always felt himself bound to preach up the grand severity and simplicity of the Greeks as essential to Tragedy. He censured the deviations of his predecessors therefrom as mistakes, and insisted on purifying and at the same time enlarging the stage, as, in his opinion, from the constraint of court manners, it had been almost straitened to the dimensions of an antechamber. He at first spoke of Shakspeare's bursts of genius, and borrowed many things from this poet, at that time altogether unknown to his countrymen; he insisted, too, on greater depth in the delineation of passion—on a stronger theatrical effect; he called for a scene more majestically ornamented; and, lastly, he frequently endeavoured to give to his pieces a political or philosophical interest altogether foreign to poetry. His labours hare unquestionably been of utility to the French stage, although in language and versification (which in the classification of dramatic excellences ought only to hold a secondary place, though in France they alone almost decide the fate of a piece), he is, by most critics, considered inferior to his predecessors, or at least to Racine. It is now the fashion to attack this idol of a bygone generation on every point, and with the most unrelenting and partial hostility. His innovations on the stage are therefore cried down as so many literary heresies, even by watchmen of the critical Zion, who seem to think that the age of Louis XIV. has left nothing for all succeeding time, to the end of the world, but a passive admiration of its perfections, without a presumptuous thought of making improvements of its own. For authority is avowed with so little disguise as the first principle of the French critics, that this expression of literary heresy is quite current with them.

wondrous frolics of Brown Pelicans, sailing and surfing just inches above the crest of waves and maintaining tight flight formations, mesmerized me. When I was in my early teens, my dad and I took a momentous trip through Alaska. We began with a boat trip up the inland passageway, and I recall excitedly seeing my very first American Bald Eagle. The species was, at that time in the early 1970s, not doing very well. I kept a careful running tally of the Bald Eagles I saw (a remarkable number) over the course of those several weeks, and I will always associate these majestic birds with the time I spent with my father, exploring a place so exotic to both of us.

The Estate of Solemnity By right, it reigns in its places- in long beards Of spanish moss hanging from a live oak On a windless evening, and in the chill of new Icicles rigidly, imperceptibly lengthening. Cavern Stalagmites are almost majestic with solemnity. The black morel and the tree ear mushroom Are solemn without grief, solemn without joy, Solemn without reverence, without a single Flicker of green or lift of a wing or cry. But the most solemn, most stalwart, the least Wavering are the tors and crags, the towering desert Spires and carved pinnacles, the devoted ascents And sharp, raw rims of boulders and bluffs, the maw Of a distant cave I saw yesterday and the day before, And the grave echo there of the day and the before. Mystics and divines have always sought the pure, White-rock serenity of the silent, solemn moon Bound in its flight alone far above the peaks, far Above the earth, surrounded there forever by bevies Of giddy stars, all asparkling, all aglow.

On his marriage to Princess Michael, an Austrian Roman Catholic, Prince Michael gave up his place but, in reality, it was merely a gesture as there was virtually no chance of him ever becoming King as he moved further and further down the line.

Christian submission “freely submits to” God’s wise and fatherly disposal. Submission involves gladly recognizing God’s fatherly authority to make these kinds of decisions concerning his children. It means to yield, to place ourselves under, to bow down to our majestic God. The opposite of submission is rebellion, the essence of sin. By Christian contentment, we are embracing our role as creatures. Satan arrogantly rebelled in heaven and sought to take God’s throne (Isa. 14:13–14). When Adam rebelled against God, he was following Satan’s path of pride. Our salvation has as its essence bringing rebellious people back under God’s kingly rule. Most of our restless discontent is nothing more than rebellion.