Pearl Hart Quotes

Some souls just understand each other upon meeting.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let someone love you.

I will write you into my forever.

But you were most beautiful when I saw all of you. Your scars and secrets.

She was a quiet girl, a thoughtful girl. But you never knew what was going in that pretty little head of hers. Whether she was planning a tea party; or a plot to take over the world.

Legend has it there is always a reason why souls meet. Maybe they found each other for reasons that weren't so different after all. They were two souls searching and found a home lost in each other. When souls find comfort in one another separation is not possible. The reasons they are brought together are no accident. Maybe she needed someone to show her how to live and he needed someone to show him how to love.

Maybe she needed someone to show her how to live and he needed someone to show him how to love.

I must have wanton Poets, pleasant wits, Musitians, that with touching of a string May draw the pliant king which way I please: Musicke and poetrie is his delight, Therefore ile have Italian maskes by night, Sweete speeches, comedies, and pleasing showes, And in the day when he shall walke abroad, Like Sylvian Nimphes my pages shall be clad, My men like Satyres grazing on the lawnes, Shall with their Goate feete daunce an antick hay. Sometime a lovelie boye in Dians shape, With haire that gilds the water as it glides, Crownets of pearle about his naked armes, And in his sportfull hands an Olive tree, To hide those parts which men delight to see, Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by, One like Actaeon peeping through the grove, Shall by the angrie goddesse be transformde, And running in the likenes of an Hart, By yelping hounds puld downe, and seeme to die. Such things as these best please his majestie, My lord.

Only love can save us.

Listen to what your heart pumps for. It beats for what it loves.

She was a quiet girl, a thoughtful girl. But you never could tell what was going on in that pretty little head of hers. Whether she was planning her next tea party; or a plot to take over the world.

If I love you then I will turn you into poetry.

As a girl she was told to be seen and not heard, until one day she decided she had much to say... and became a legend instead.

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose, Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver, Give unto the flying hart Space to breath, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night- Goddess excellently bright.

Pearl saltbush Meaning: My hidden worth Maireana sedifolia | South Australia and Northern Territory Common in deserts and salty environments, this low shrub creates a fascinating ecosystem of almost hidden treasures: geckoes, fairy wrens, fungi and lichen colonies. Drought-tolerant, with silvery grey evergreen foliage that forms a dense groundcover that is fire-retardant.

The rash on her legs is peeling, coming off her in great pale strips, like the discarded skin of a snake. Below it, the flesh isn't pink and raw, or dotted with blood. Instead it glimmers, changing color with the light of the storm. Green then blue, then the pinkish white of mother-of-pearl. Iridescent as scales.

I look in the jewelry box where Joanie found the drugs. She showed me a miniature Ziploc bag filled with a clear, hard rock. “What is this?” I said. I never did drugs, so I had no idea. Heroin? Cocaine? Crack? Ice? “What is this?” I screamed at Alex, who screamed back, “It’s not like I shoot it!” A plastic ballerina pops up and slowly twirls to a tinkling song whose sound is discordant and deformed. The pink satin liner is dirty, and other than a black pearl necklace, the box holds only rusty paper clips and rubber bands noosed with Alex’s dark hair. I see a note stuck to the mirror and pick up the jewelry box and move the ballerina aside. She twirls against my finger. The note says, I wouldn’t hide them in the same place twice. I let out a short breath through my nose. Good one, Alex. I close the jewelry box and shake my head, missing her tremendously. I wish she never went back to boarding school, and I don’t understand her sudden change of plans. What did they fight about? What could have been so bad?

It's Kitty B.'s specialty: a lemon sour cream pound cake with a little hint of Grand Marnier liqueur. Each tier is iced with an ivory-colored buttercream and decorated with pearl drops and an elegant piped pearl border. A cascade of real white orchids starts at the top tier and curls its way down the side to the bottom, encircling the base with delicate white petals and dark pink centers.

She was a quiet girl, a thoughtful girl. But, you were never quite sure what was going on inside that pretty little head of hers. Was it planning her next tea party; or plotting to take over the world.

Do you always wear your guns?” I asked. “Mostly. You never know what will happen.” “You might have to run down a bank robber or cattle rustler?” He grinned. “Something like that.” I’d read a story once about Pearl Hart, the famous lady stagecoach robber. How would it feel to wear the heavy pistols slung low on the hips? “May I try it on?” “My gun belt?” I nodded, Christmas morning excitement bursting through me. “Well, I guess it’d be all right.” He unbuckled his belt and handed it to me. “Be careful, though.” More weight than I expected filled my hands, but not more than I could handle. A lifetime of wielding cast-iron pots and pans made a girl’s arms strong. I strapped the belt around my waist, undecided as to whether I imagined myself a bandit or a law enforcer.

The story of the Son’s incarnation, life, death, and resurrection is not the story of a divine masquerade, of a king who goes forth in self-divestment simply to return to the estate he has abandoned, like the protagonist in The Song of the Pearl, losing himself in the far country and then finding his true self again only in his return to his distant demesne. The Son goes forth because going forth is always already who he is as the one who reveals God, because all wealth and all poverty are already encompassed in his eternal life of receiving and pouring out, his infinitely accomplished bliss and love: he is the God he is in his very divestment and in his glory, both at once, as the same thing, inseparably.

An insect hovers nearby. She can't remember what it's called: smaller than a dragonfly, with delicate mother-of-pearl wings. It skims the surface of the beck. She stays like that for a long time, listening to the birds, the water, the insects. She shuts her eyes, opening them again when she feels something brush her hand. The dragonfly-like creature with the iridescent wings. The word swims up from the depths of her brain: a damselfly. Tears well in her eyes, surprising her. She was fascinated by insects as a child. She remembers begging her mother to spare the moths that fluttered out from wardrobes, the gauzy spider's webs that clung to the ceiling. She'd collected vividly illustrated books about them. About birds, too. She would hide under the covers reading, in the small, silent hours of the morning while her parents slept in the next room. It hurts now, to think of that little girl, her innocent wonder: flashlight in hand, turning the glossy pages and marveling at the wild and wonderful creatures. Butterflies with eyes on their wings, parrots in candy-colored plumage.

And there, seated at the heart of all that sumptuousness and leaning forward in his chair behind the great desk, was a figure that looked like nothing so much as a dapper but exceedingly despondent frog. The very shape of his head seemed as if it had been altered by a powerful vertical vice, resulting in a symmetrical ovoid with a horizontal polar axis. His complexion was not so much sallow as lightly green. His mouth was unnaturally wide, with thick, tautly stretched lips the color and texture of earthworms. What ears he had were small and circular and somewhat recessed. His nose was broad and rather flat, as if it had been spread on his face unevenly by a butter knife, and had what looked more like nares than full nostrils. The sparse, slick tendrils of his hair were of some murkily nondescript hue and clung unguinously to his scalp. The dense convex lenses of his wire-rimmed spectacles made it seem as if his greenish-gray eyes were peering out at the world from the bottom of a shallow pond, through a thin layer of algae. If he had a jawline, it was not immediately evident where he kept it. His hunched, narrow, rounded shoulders, moreover, amplified the amphibian quality of his appearance. He was, however, dressed in the height of fashion: a high collar and pearl-colored cravat, a waistcoat of forest-green velvet, and a formal coat of lighter, lettuce-green damask with lapels of cream-white satin with pink borders.

En ik begreep dat het hart altijd in staat was om een plekje voor iemand te maken. Hoe voller het zat, des te gezonder en gelukkiger je was.

I was in Afghanistan for a while. Sand is overrated if there isn’t a beach there to accompany it. I’ve probably still got sand in places I don’t care to mention.” “Maybe one day you’ll find a pearl in your shorts,” Joe said, grinning a gap-toothed grin.

The moon shone like a pearl in the dusky sky, lighting up the cragged hills. There was a gentle wind, and Violet heard the trees shift and murmur. She closed her eyes, listening to the hoot of an owl, the flap of a bat’s wings, a badger rustling on the way to its burrow.