Sparkle And Shine Quotes

People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

Consider the fact that maybe…just maybe…beauty and worth aren’t found in a makeup bottle, or a salon-fresh hairstyle, or a fabulous outfit. Maybe our sparkle comes from somewhere deeper inside, somewhere so pure and authentic and REAL, it doesn’t need gloss or polish or glitter to shine.

So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the blue-silver of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh-fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever. With masks down, I walk, talking to the moon, to the neutral impersonal force that does not hear, but merely accepts my being. And does not smite me down.

Blooming under a cold moon, we are like fireworks... Rising, shining, and finally scattering and fading. So until that moment comes when we vanish like fireworks... Lets us sparkle brightly, Always...

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross: “People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.

There is no model, no actress, no Miss America contender that can outshine a happy, confident, secure woman.

People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there’s a light from within.

We are sand and rock and water and sky, anchors on ships and sails in the wind. We are a journey to a destination that shifts every time we dream or fall or keep or weep. We are stars with flaws that still sparkle and shine. We always strive, always want, always have more questions than answers, but there are moments like these, full of magic and contentment, when souls get a glimpse of the divine and quite simply, lose their breath.

You know how we can be about things which sparkle and shine. We imagine they will put back something of what has been lost.

just because they don’t hit you doesn’t mean it isn’t abuse.   wouldn’t you think it a crime to look up at the night sky & tell the stars that they have no sparkle?   guess what? you shine brighter than all the starlight there has ever been or ever will be.   - emotional abuse is still abuse.

He's become like that briefcase in the ground-full of gems yet void of light, so nothing sparkles, nothing shines.

When you're born a light is switched on, a light which shines up through your life. As you get older the light still reaches you, sparkling as it comes up through your memories. And if you're lucky as you travel forward through time, you'll bring the whole of yourself along with you, gathering your skirts and leaving nothing behind, nothing to obscure the light. But if a Bad Thing happens part of you is seared into place, and trapped for ever at that time. The rest of you moves onward, dealing with all the todays and tomorrows, but something, some part of you, is left behind. That part blocks the light, colours the rest of your life, but worse than that, it's alive. Trapped for ever at that moment, and alone in the dark, that part of you is still alive.

I look down at our knees, slightly touching. Jeans against jeans. Does she notice the heat transferring from her body to mine? Does she even realize what she's doing to me? I know, I know. I'm not a virgin and the slightest touch of a girl's knee is driving me insane. I don't even know what I'm feeling for Maggie, I just know that I'm feeling. It's something I've tried to avoid and deny until yesterday, when I held her in my arms while her tears spilled onto my shirt. God, our knees touching isn't enough. I need more. She's knotting her fingers together on her lap as if she doesn't know what to do with them. I want to touch her, but what if she pulls away like before? I've never been such a wuss with a girl in my life. I bite my bottom lip as I slide my hand about millionth of a millimeter closer to her hand. She doesn't seem fazed so I move closer. And closer. When the tips of my fingers touch her wrist, she freezes. But she doesn't jerk her hand away. God, her skin is so soft, I think as my fingers trail a path from her wrist to her knuckles to her smooth, manicured nails. I swear touching her like this is driving me nuts. It's more erotic, more intense than any other time with Kendra. I feel awkward and inexperienced as a freshman again. I look up. Everyone else is oblivious to the intensity of emotions running rampant in the back of the public bus. When I look back down at my hand covering hers, I'm grateful she hasn't come to her senses and pulled away. As if she knows my thoughts, we both turn our hands at the same time so our hands are palm against palm...finger against finger. Her hand is dwarfed against mine. It makes her seem more delicate and petite than I'd realize. I feel a need to protect her and be her champion should she ever need one. With a slight shift of my hand, I lace my fingers through hers. I'm holding hands. With Maggie Armstrong. I'm not even going to think about how wrong it is because it feels so right. She's avoided looking right at me, but now she turns her head and our eyes lock. God, how come I never noticed before how long her lashes were and how her brown eyes have specks of gold that sparkle when the sun shine on them? The bus stops suddenly and I look out the window. It's our stop. She must have realized this because she pulls her hand away from mine and stands. I follow behind, still reeling.

Honey, no matter where you are, I’m with you. When the breeze brushes your cheek, that’s me. When the stars sparkle and shine, that’s me. When the tulips bloom in the spring, that’s me.” The little things. She’s there, in the little things.

Even the stars are lies. They sparkle so brightly, but their shine takes years to reach us.

Contrary to general belief, stars don’t twinkle. There is only one star that sparkles that scientists can agree on. It twinkles so bright, sometimes people mistake it for a UFO. It’s not big, but it stands out. That’s Sirius, and it’s also you. You shine, Baby LeBlanc. So fucking bright sometimes you’re the only thing I see.” - Dean "Ruckus" Cole

Shine with a genuine golden heart not with a business egoistic sparkle.

I had sparkle that morning, sparkle that originated somewhere deep inside me and spread outward to my cheeks and eyes, even it seemed, to the gleam of my hair.

The only difference between you and the star is that you shine below, and the other shines above: Wherever you are located, You are a star!

are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there’s a light from within.

She always had that about her, the sparkle in her eye, she was unshakeable and what made her so admirable was; her ability to shine bright when no one knew of her pain.

And anyway, in our house, no-one is obliged to sparkle. Which, I find, makes it far more likely that they might.

She sparkles because she believes. - Kailin Gow

We've written the rough draft of our love together, the draft with loose ends, unfinished edges, mistakes every other page. But every writer knows there's magic in revision, where your work changes from a manuscript into a book. Where intentions, emotions, missed connections coalesce into something complete. It's where what you mean to say becomes what you have said. The characters deepen, the details shine, the prose sparkles. Suddenly, from nothing, you find your story.

Blaze your own glittery, sparkly, fiery, shimmering path. Surround yourself with the things that make you shine. Create your bubble and thrive in it.

Wood does not customarily glitter. Few things do, unless they are attempting to lure something closer to themselves. Sparkle and shine are pleasures reserved for predators, who can afford the risk of courting attention. The exceptions - which exist, for all things must have exceptions - are almost entirely poisonous, and will sicken whatever they lure. So even the exception feeds into the rule, which states that a bright, shimmering thing is almost certainly looking to be seen, and that which hopes to be seen is persuing its own agenda.

be the setting that holds another person up to the light like a precious jewel, letting every facet of who they are sparkle and shine revealing all the colors within their heart...

My solitude was like a gemstone. For the most part it was sparkling and resplendent – something I wore with pride. (...) But underneath this diamond of solitude was a sharp point that I occasionally caught with my bare hands, making it feel like a perilous asset rather than a precious one. Perhaps this jagged underside was essential – what made the surface of my aloneness shine so bright. But loneliness, once just sad, had recently started to feel frightening.

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 can, each of us, be likened to houses made entirely of colorfully stained-glass. They sparkle and shine when the sun is on them, however when the darkness sets in, their greatest beauty is revealed only by a Light from within.

Happiness has only one colour: The Bright! The bright of red, the bright of green, the bright of any colour! Happiness is bright! It shines, it sparkles, it glints!

Decorate your holiday home with people that sparkle, not things that shine.

/“People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.” / — Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

I knew I was a grain of sand in the vast desert that never ended and he was a sparkling star in the sky. I was a fish who couldn’t breathe in air and had to stay in dark waters forever while he was a majestic bird who soared so high that he barely touched the ground. I did not deserve him. I could only watch him from down here and wish, wish that he could come here someday. That he could know that I existed. But for that, he had to fall. He had to drop to the ground but I could not let that happen. And then I thought, birds are meant to fly and stars are meant to shine and if someone takes it away from them, they can't be the same anymore. So, I just prayed that his wings never fail him, that the star never explodes. And I was at peace.

It was like dawn, and then dusk cascading over the Himalayas. First, the gradual brightening over snow and contour, then the shining, sparkling sun mirrored; and then as the moment of joy passed – the lingering colour-changing light; reluctant to leave. That faint, bittersweet almost-light, and then indigo outlines and inky black.

Love was merely a tool, smiles were another tool, they were both just tools for accomplishing certain ends. No magic, merely chemicals. I felt I'd never really loved anyone, not Paul, not Chuck the Royal Porcupine, not even Arthur. I'd polished them with my love and expected them to shine, brightly enough to return my own reflection, enhanced and sparkling.

We are like fireworks…rising, shining and finally…scattering and fading. So until that moment comes when we vanish like fireworks…let us sparkle brightly…always.

Women are like sparkling diamonds, if you let too many hands touch it, not only will it get dirty with too many smudges and finger prints, it will also lose its shine and lustre.

People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.

People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.

People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.

Love is the instrument to unfold divine secrets... Love is the reign timeless, dimensionless... Lover is as distinct as the moon shining among stars on the sky. Beloved is the sparkle in the heart of the Love.

I want the shining gravel in a dark brook. I want the sparkle of the stone beneath the rays of sun, I want death that frees me. I could manage to have pleasure if I abstained from thinking. Then I’d feel the ebb and flow of air in my lungs.

He’s become like that briefcase in the ground—full of gems yet void of light, so nothing sparkles, nothing shines.

Contrary to general belief, stars don’t twinkle. There is only one star that sparkles that scientists can agree on. It twinkles so bright, sometimes people mistake it for a UFO. It’s not big, but it stands out. That’s Sirius, and it’s also you. You shine, Baby LeBlanc. So fucking bright sometimes you’re the only thing I see.

I encourage you to remember that you are, indeed, as the stars. You glow with the same intensity. The answers that you seek outside of yourself may very well be found within the cosmic intelligence inside you. Go ahead; show the world what you are made of! Sparkle, shine, light the way, and brightly blaze as you are meant to do.

So here’s the thing about glitter: once it’s out of the bottle, there’s just no way of putting it back. It’s the same with kindness. Once it pours out of your soul, there’s no way of containing it. It just continues to spread from person to person, a shining, sparkling, wonderful thing.

our life is a coloring book...together we color our world onto the vibrant pages with our radiant hues, saturating and warming our lives with a beauty that's so filled with colorful luminosity, just like sparkling sunbeams shining through a thousand colorful leaves ablaze on autumn trees

Many surround themselves with luminaries, but in so doing they dull their own sparkle. If you want to shine bright, look to the heavens and see how the brightest star always stands apart from those lesser shining stars.

We should learn from flowers, earthly stars which spend their entire lives shining, shining and growing despite all the difficulties they encounter. They know how to listen and understand the whispers of time, for it is an eternal friend that teaches the importance of friendship and sparkling hope.

The Dog-star and Aldebaran, pointing to the restless Pleiades, were half-way up the Southern sky, and between them hung Orion, which gorgeous constellation never burnt more vividly than now, as it soared forth above the rim of the landscape. Castor and Pollux with their quiet shine were almost on the meridian: the barren and gloomy Square of Pegasus was creeping round to the north-west; far away through the plantation Vega sparkled like a lamp suspended amid the leafless trees, and Cassiopeia's chair stood daintily poised on the uppermost boughs. "One o'clock," said Gabriel.

Love doesn't save, it raises you up and makes you bigger, it lights you up from inside and carves out that light like wood in the forest. It nestles in the hollows of empty days, of thankless tasks, of useless hours, it doesn't drift along on golden rafts or sparkling rivers, it doesn't sing or shine and it never proclaims a thing. But at night, once the room's been swept and the embers covered over and the children are asleep -- at night between the sheets, with slow gazes, not moving or speaking -- at night, at last, when we're weary of our meager lives and the trivialities of our insignificant existance, each of us becomes the well where the other one can draw water ...

To sparkle its enough to be a Star, but to shine you have to be at Sky.

When the sun shines o’er the loch and sparkles on the water like diamond drops, ye know one thing: somewhere there’s a MacLean who is smilin’.

And you're right―I don't want nice. I want sparks and fire. I want a romance novel. A Jane Austen movie. A fairy tale.

I cannot tell whether diamonds appeared in his eyes or mine as the shine of adoration became the icon one sees in history, a Byzantine sparkle, Medieval armor against all odds.

A star never lets anything dull its sparkle, not even darkness.

Learn from stars; when dark times try to dull your sparkle, shine.

To sparkle is to shine but to dazzle is divine!

Always remember that you shine. Those who try to take away your sparkle aren’t worthy of it.

People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there’s a light from within.” He

I used to think in my Russian-novel days, that I would cherish a lover who managed through thick and thin, snow and sleet, to have a bunch of Parma violets on my breakfast tray each morning--also rain or shine, Christmas or August, and onward into complete Neverland. Later, I shifted my dream plan--a split of cold champagne one half hour before the tray! Violets, sparkling wine, and trays themselves were as nonexistent as the lover(s), of course, but once again, Why not?

He said the pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly. That was his most perfect idea of heaven's happiness: mine was rocking in a rustling green tree, with a west wind blowing, and bright white clouds flitting rapidly above; and not only larks, but throstles, and blackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos pouring out music on every side, and the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but close by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze; and woods and sounding water, and the whole world awake and wild with joy. He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be only half alive; and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall asleep in his; and he said he could not breathe in mine

My pet-sitting day ends around sunset, and it's very satisfying to know that I've made several living beings happy that day. That I left their food bowls sparkling clean and fresh water in their water bowls. That I brushed them so their coats shined, and played with them until all our hearts were beating faster. That I kissed them goodbye and left them with their tails wagging or flipping or at least raised in a happy kind of way. That's a heck of a lot more than any president, pope, prime minister, or potentate can say, and I wouldn't switch places with any of them.

Who spilled these stars across the sky like sparkling dust like clouds of light? They pour their milky shine into the deep black bowl above their heads white glittering too many to count.

But were the coming narrative to reveal in any instance, the complete abasement of poor Starbuck's fortitude, scarce might I have the heart to write it; for it is a thing most sorrowful, nay shocking, to expose the fall of valour in the soul. Men may seem detestable as joint stock-companies and nations; knaves, fools, and murderers there may be; men may have mean and meagre faces; but man, in the ideal, is so noble and so sparkling, such a grand and glowing creature, that over any ignominious blemish in him all his fellows should run to throw their costliest robes. That immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves, so far within us, that it remains intact though all the outer character seem gone; bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a valor-ruined man. Nor can piety itself, at such a shameful sight, completely stifle her upbraidings against the permitting stars. But this august dignity I treat of, is not the dignity of kings and robes, but that abounding dignity which has no robed investiture. Thou shalt see it shining in the arm that wields a pick or drives a spike; that democratic dignity which, on all hands, radiates without end from God; Himself! The great God absolute! The centre and circumference of all democracy! His omnipresence, our divine equality!

The dove, as it flies in the sun, seems simply to sparkle like silver, but only one who has been able to wait at length to discover its hidden face will see its true gold or, rather, the color of a shining orange.

The Devil's Rose You would never take a rose from a beast. If his callous hand were to hold out a scarlet flower, his grip unaffected by pricking thorns, you would shrink from the gift and refuse it. I know that is what you would do. But the cunning beast will have his beauty. He hunts not in hopeless pursuit, for fear would have you sprint all the day long. Thus, he turns toward the shadows and clutches the rosebud, crunching and twisting until every delicate petal is detached. One falls not far from your feet, and you notice the red spot in the snow. The color sparkles in the sunlight, catching your curious eye. No beast stands in sight; there is nothing to fear, so you dare retrieve the lone petal. The touch of temptation is velvet against your thumb. It carries a scent you bring to your nose, and both eyes close to float on a cloud of perfume. As your lashes lift, another scarlet drop stains the snow at a near distance. A glance around perceives no danger, and so your footprints scar the snowflakes to retrieve another rosy leaflet as soft and sweet as the first. Your eyes shine with flecks of golden greed at the discovery of more discarded petals, and you blame the wind for scattering them mere footprints apart. All you want is a few, so you step and snatch, step and snatch, step and snatch. Soon, there is enough velvet to rub against your cheek like a silken kerchief. Your collection of one-plus-one-more reeks of floral essence. Distracted, you jump at the sight of the beast in your path. He stands before his lair, grinning without love. His callous hands grip at thorns on a single naked stem, and you look down at your own hands that now cup his rose. But how can it be? You would never take a rose from a beast. You would shrink from the gift and refuse it. He knows that is what you would do.

Sparkling…? I bent close, frowning. It was only then that I saw the beautiful golden necklace curled on the papers, with the sapphire glinting at its heart. Lockwood had taken it out of the old crushed box that his mother had kept it in. Even in the dusk, the gem was glorious, undying and undimmed. It was as if all the light and love it had gathered in the past was shining out on me. I stood gazing at it for a long time. Slowly, carefully, I picked up the necklace and hung it around my neck. Then I put on my jacket and ran for the stairs.

One tear still glistened in the corner of her left eye, shining in the brightness of the room. A tiny, clear piece of her, an ephemeral diamond. Acting on some strange instinct, I reached out to catch it with my fingertip. Round on my skin, it sparkled as my hand moved. I swiftly touched my finger to my tongue, tasting her tear, absorbing this minute particle of her.

How soon, indeed, are human things forgotten! As we meet here this morning, the Southern sun is shining on their place of burial, and the waves sparkling and the sea-gulls circling around Fort Wagner's ancient site. But the great earthworks and their thundering cannon, the commanders and their followers, the wild assault and repulse that for a brief space made night hideous on that far-off evening, have all sunk into the blue gulf of the past, and for the majority of this generation are hardly more than an abstract name, a picture, a tale that is told. Only when some yellow-bleached photograph of a soldier of the 'sixties comes into our hands, with that odd and vivid look of individuality due to the moment when it was taken, do we realize the concreteness of that by-gone history, and feel how interminable to the actors in them were those leaden-footed hours and years.

THE WEEPING WILLOW Flowing was the water showing in its mirror the willow trees. The weeping willows in the water were washing their hair! Striking the willows with their sparkling, bare swords the red horsemen were running to where the sun sets! Suddenly like a bird as if struck in the wing a wounded horseman rolled down from his horse! He didn't shout, he did'nt call back those who go along, he just looked with brimming eyes at the shining horseshoes of departing riders! O what a pity! What a pity for him that no more he shall lie on the foaming necks of galloping horses, no more he shall play his sword behind the white armies! The sounds of the horseshoes fades away slowly, the horsemen vanish at where the sun sets! Horsemen horsemen red horsemen, their horses winged with wind! Their horses winged with... Their horses winged... Their horses... Horse... Life has passed like the wind winged horsemen! The voice of the flowing water ceased. The shadows shadowed the colours wiped off. Black coverings came down over his blue eyes, the weeping willows hung down over his yellow hair! Weep not weeping willow weep not, in the mirror of the black water clasp not your hands! clasp not your hands! weep not!

He has to pay people who have a sense of humor. Since he’s lacking one,” I added, when Ethan didn’t laugh. “I understood the joke, Merit,” he quietly said, sparkling emerald eyes on me as we began to sway. “I didn’t find it funny.” “Yes, well, your sense of humor leaves something to be desired.” Ethan spun me out and away, then pulled me back again. Stuck-up or not, I had to give him props—the boy could move. “My sense of humor is perfectly well developed,” he informed me when our bodies aligned again. “I merely have high standards.” “And yet you deign to dance with me.” “I’m dancing in a stately home with the owner’s daughter, who happens to be a powerful vampire.” Ethan looked down at me, brow cocked. “A man could do worse.” “A man could do worse,” I agreed. “But could a vampire?” “If I find one, I’ll ask him.” The response was corny enough that I laughed aloud, full and heartily, and had the odd, heart-clenching pleasure of watching him smile back, watching his green eyes shine with the delight of it.

Tears fill her eyes, making the hazel colour sparkle like pebbles at the bottom of a clear stream when the sun shines on them.

Lost in his thoughts he looked out from his shop at the shining loveliness of that first day of March. Opposite him, a little to the side, stood the eternal bridge, everlastingly the same; through its white arches could be seen the green, sparkling, tumultuous waters of the Drina, so that they seemed like some strange diadem in two colours which sparkled in the sun.

Every night is Christmas Eve on old East Main, Sailors and their sweethearts all agree. Neon signs of red and green Shine upon the friendly scene, Welcoming you in from off the sea. Santa's bag is filled with all your dreams come true: Nickel beers that sparkle like champagne, Barmaids who all love to screw, All of them reminding you It's Christmas Eve on old East Main.

My love, I walked for thirty years under the sky without ever doubting that I lived in glory; I never wavered; I never stumbled; I was a reveler and a loudmouth, if ever there was one, as stupid and useless as the sparrows and the peacocks; I wiped my mouth on the cuff of my sleeve, tramped into the house with mud on my feet and burped many's a time amid the laughter and the wine. But I always held my head high in the storm because I loved you and you loved me back, and our love mightn't have been all silk and poetry but we could look at each other and know we'd drown all our woes. Love doesn't save, it raises you up and makes you bigger, it lights you up from inside and carves out that light like wood in the forest. It nestles in the hollows of empty days, of thankless tasks, of useless hours, it doesn't drift along on golden rafts or sparkling rivers, it doesn't sing or shine and it never proclaims a thing. But at night, once the room's been swept and the embers covered over and the children are asleep - at night between the sheets, with slow gazes, not moving or speaking - at night, at last, when we're weary of our meager lives and the trivialities of our insignificant existence, each of us becomes the well where the other can draw water, and we love each other and learn to love ourselves.

The moon is shining brighter tonight, touching the entire village with its soft silver light; the houses are half awake and the sky is half asleep, with its sparkling yellowish stars scattered and spread across it, like a large bright night cloak. Little and fragile plants’ silhouettes are beautifully staining the skyline and dancing to the silent sound of the winter breeze.

I’m sorry them monsters did this to you. They took Eli, but don't worry.” Her palm flattens on my cheek, determination shining in her sparkling blue eyes. “I won’t allow them to take you, too.

delicate masks hiding some of their features better than others. Multiple luminium chandeliers sparkled from the golden ceiling, a string orchestra played from a balcony high above their heads, and at their ankles swirled a layer of misted cloud — kept in place by elemental magic, no doubt, as were the floating specks of light dotting the air, like starbursts hovering among the dancing couples. On the far side, the glass wall had been opened to a reveal a balcony beyond which the Serin lay, its surface dusted with enough luminium candles to make it sparkle brighter than the moonlight shining down on the city.

There is a legend that has often been told Of the boy who searched for the Windows of Gold. The beautiful windows he saw far away When he looked in the valley at sunrise each day. And he yearned to go down to the valley below But lived on a mountain covered with snow, And he knew it would be a difficult trek, But that was a journey he wanted to make. So he planned by day and he dreamed by night Of how he could reach The Great Shining Light. And one golden morning when dawn broke through And the valley sparkled with diamond of dew. He started to climb down the mountainside With the Windows of Gold as his goal and his guide. He traveled all day and, weary and worn, With bleeding feet and clothes that were torn. He entered the peaceful valley town Just as the Golden Sun went down. But he seemed to have lost his "Guiding Light," The windows were dark that had once been bright. And hungry and tired and lonely and cold He cried, "Won't You Show Me The Windows of Gold?" And a kind hand touched him and said, "Behold! High On The Mountain Are The Windows of Gold." For the sun going down in a great golden ball Had burnished the windows of his cabin so small, And the Kingdom of God with its Great Shining light, Like the Golden Windows that shone so bright. Is not a far distant place, somewhere, It's as close to you as a silent prayer, And your search for God will end and begin When you look for Him and find Him within.

One last mystery: on one of the little ponds, this morning, I saw wind riffling the first of the waterlily leaves. They haven’t all emerged yet, but new circles tattoo the water, here and there, a coppery red. When the wind lifted their edges, each would reveal a little shadowy spot, a dot of black which seemed to flash on the water, and so across the whole surface of the pond there was what could only be described as the inverse of sparkling; a scintillant blackness. Shining blackly, black but rippling, lyrical: the sheen and radiance of death-in-life. Is that my work, to point to the world and say, See how darkly it sparkles?

Now is the right time for you to become excellent. By taking action on your dreams of excellence, you start polishing the rough diamond you are. As you buff and shine yourself with practice, sparkling success becomes yours.

Ma untied the handkerchief and exclaimed at what she found. The beads were even prettier than they had been in the Indian camp. Laura stirred her beads with her finger and watched them sparkle and shine. “These are mine,” she said. Then Mary said, “Carrie can have mine.” Ma waited to hear what Laura would say. Laura didn’t want to say anything. She wanted to keep those pretty beads. Her chest felt all hot inside, and she wished with all her might that Mary wouldn’t always be such a good little girl. But she couldn’t let Mary be better than she was. So she said, slowly, “Carrie can have mine, too.” “That’s my unselfish, good little girls,” said Ma. She poured Mary’s beads into Mary’s hands, and Laura’s into Laura’s hands, and she said she would give them a thread to string them on. The beads would make a pretty necklace for Carrie to wear around her neck. Mary and Laura sat side by side on their bed, and they strung those pretty beads on the thread that Ma gave them. Each wet her end of the thread in her mouth and twisted it tightly. Then Mary put her end of the thread through the small hole in each of the beads, and Laura put her end through her beads, one by one. They didn’t say anything. Perhaps Mary felt sweet and good inside, but Laura didn’t. When she looked at Mary she wanted to slap her. So she dared not look at Mary again.

Bathed in the light of those sparkling mirrors, I burn like a star while my partner fades into the shadows. The crowd begins to cheer. I'm the life they thought they lost. I've emerged, their resurrected champion at center ring.

I examined it cautiously. On the opposite side of the chain from the wolf, there now hung a brilliant heart-shaped crystal. It was cut in a million facets, so that even in the subdued light shining from the lamp, it sparkled. I inhaled in a low gasp..." "But I thought it was a good representation,' he continued. 'It's hard and cold.' He laughed. 'And it throws rainbows in the sunlight.' 'You forgot the most important similarity,' I murmured. 'It's beautiful.' 'My heart is just as silent,' he mused. 'And it, too, is yours.

The Valley Weeps Weep softly o mother, the walls have ears you know... The streets are awash o mother! I cannot go searching for him any more. The streets are awash o mother with blood and tears, pellets and screams. that silently remain locked in the air, while they lock us souless inside. The guns are out o mother, while our boys go armed with stones, I cannot go looking for him o mother, I have no courage to face what i will find. They fill the air o mother, The fragrance of plastic flowers I will place them beside your grave if i ever do survive, flowers that have no soul. and would never fade with time, The sun shines glorious o mother The water sparkles so fine The buds are closed in terror and birds have gone silent with fear There is poison in our heaven o mother I dread for what more is in store. They came for him o mother, yesterday as you slept inside, He went marching o mother with all the others beside. I never told you o mother, I do not know if he would ever return. The streets are awash o mother! I cannot go searching for him any more. Weep softly o mother, the walls have ears you know... If your old blind eyes can see, You will want to see again no more. Our men have lost their spirit Our women have lost their smile, Our children have lost their laughter, The valley has lost its shine, Weep softly O mother For, we still have our pride. 17/07/2016

On another night, in a different dream I was asking a question. “How is it that you say all are equal, yet the obvious contradictions smack us in the face: inequalities in virtues, temperances, finances, rights, abilities and talents, intelligence, mathematical aptitude, ad infinitum?” The answer was a metaphor. “It is as if a large diamond were to be found inside each person. Picture a diamond a foot long. The diamond has a thousand facets, but the facets are covered with dirt and tar. It is the job of the soul to clean each facet until the surface is brilliant and can reflect a rainbow of colors. “Now, some have cleaned many facets and gleam brightly. Others have only managed to clean a few; they do not sparkle so. Yet, underneath the dirt, each person possesses within his or her breast a brilliant diamond with a thousand gleaming facets. The diamond is perfect, not one flaw. The only differences among people are the number of facets cleaned. But each diamond is the same, and each is perfect. “When all the facets are cleaned and shining forth in a spectrum of lights, the diamond returns to the pure energy that it was originally. The lights remain. It is as if the process that goes into making the diamond is reversed, all that pressure released. The pure energy exists in the rainbow of lights, and the lights possess consciousness and knowledge. “And all of the diamonds are perfect.” Sometimes

It’s easy, of course, to buzz the beach and find the sparkle on good days—days when the sun is shining and your heart is light. When it gets really dark, though, that’s when you start to understand that it’s a discipline, and you need it in the dark so much more desperately than you need it in the light. Joy and celebration are practices for the long haul.

Now directly above her, transiting the meridian, was the new crescent moon. No longer a chalky white, it was as silver as a piece of polished jewelry, somehow shining and sparkling despite the fact that it should have been nearly invisible that close to the sun, traveling through his bright day. "Oh, how pret---" Rapunzel started to say, but then she was distracted because her hair began to glow. Just like when she killed the chickens-- but more. Brilliantly, with the white light of the diamonds of her (Flynn's) crown, with the whiteness she imagined the foam of a midnight sea would look like. She picked up a hank of hair and let it hang from her hands; it was like holding molten silver chains or all the distant rivers seen from her tower, gathered up together by some unimaginable fairy-tale giant.

A paradisiacal lagoon lay below them. The water was an unbelievable, unreal turquoise, its surface so still that every feature of the bottom could be admired in magnified detail: colorful pebbles, bright red kelp, fish as pretty and colorful as the jungle birds. A waterfall on the far side fell softly from a height of at least twenty feet. A triple rainbow graced its frothy bottom. Large boulders stuck out of the water at seemingly random intervals, black and sun-warmed and extremely inviting, like they had been placed there on purpose by some ancient giant. And on these were the mermaids. Wendy gasped at their beauty. Their tails were all colors of the rainbow, somehow managing not to look tawdry or clownish. Deep royal blue, glittery emerald green, coral red, anemone purple. Slick and wet and as beautifully real as the salmon Wendy's father had once caught on holiday in Scotland. Shining and voluptuously alive. The mermaids were rather scandalously naked except for a few who wore carefully placed shells and starfish, although their hair did afford some measure of decorum as it trailed down their torsos. Their locks were long and thick and sinuous and mostly the same shades as their tails. Some had very tightly coiled curls, some had braids. Some had decorated their tresses with limpets and bright hibiscus flowers. Their "human" skins were familiar tones: dark brown to pale white, pink and beige and golden and everything in between. Their eyes were also familiar eye colors but strangely clear and flat. Either depthless or extremely shallow depending on how one stared. They sang, they brushed their hair, they played in the water. In short, they did everything mythical and magical mermaids were supposed to do, laughing and splashing as they did. "Oh!" Wendy whispered. "They're-" And then she stopped. Tinker Bell was giving her a funny look. An unhappy funny look. The mermaids were beautiful. Indescribably, perfectly beautiful. They glowed and were radiant and seemed to suck up every ray of sun and sparkle of water; Wendy found she had no interest looking anywhere else.

They [mountains] are portions of the heart of the earth that have escaped from the dungeon down below, and rushed up and out. For the heart of the earth is a great wallowing mass, not of blood, as in the hearts of men and animals, but of glowing hot melted metals and stones. And as our hearts keep us alive, so that great lump of heat keeps the earth alive: it is a huge power of buried sunlight—that is what it is. Now think: out of that caldron, where all the bubbles would be as big as the Alps if it could get room for its boiling, certain bubbles have bubbled out and escaped—up and away, and there they stand in the cool, cold sky—mountains. Think of the change, and you will no more wonder that there should be something awful about the very look of a mountain: from the darkness—for where the light has nothing to shine upon, it is much the same as darkness—from the heat, from the endless tumult of boiling unrest—up, with a sudden heavenward shoot, into the wind, and the cold, and the starshine, and a cloak of snow that lies like ermine above the blue-green mail of the glaciers; and the great sun, their grandfather, up there in the sky; and their little old cold aunt, the moon, that comes wandering about the house at night; and everlasting stillness, except for the wind that turns the rocks and caverns into a roaring organ for the young archangels that are studying how to let out the pent-up praises of their hearts, and the molten music of the streams, rushing ever from the bosoms of the glaciers fresh-born. Think too of the change in their own substance—no longer molten and soft, heaving and glowing, but hard and shining and cold. Think of the creatures scampering over and burrowing in it, and the birds building their nests upon it, and the trees growing out of its sides, like hair to clothe it, and the lovely grass in the valleys, and the gracious flowers even at the very edge of its armour of ice, like the rich embroidery of the garment below, and the rivers galloping down the valleys in a tumult of white and green! And along with all these, think of the terrible precipices down which the traveller may fall and be lost, and the frightful gulfs of blue air cracked in the glaciers, and the dark profound lakes, covered like little arctic oceans with floating lumps of ice. All this outside the mountain! But the inside, who shall tell what lies there? Caverns of awfullest solitude, their walls miles thick, sparkling with ores of gold or silver, copper or iron, tin or mercury, studded perhaps with precious stones—perhaps a brook, with eyeless fish in it, running, running ceaseless, cold and babbling, through banks crusted with carbuncles and golden topazes, or over a gravel of which some of the stones are rubies and emeralds, perhaps diamonds and sapphires—who can tell?—and whoever can't tell is free to think—all waiting to flash, waiting for millions of ages—ever since the earth flew off from the sun, a great blot of fire, and began to cool. Then there are caverns full of water, numbing cold, fiercely hot—hotter than any boiling water. From some of these the water cannot get out, and from others it runs in channels as the blood in the body: little veins bring it down from the ice above into the great caverns of the mountain's heart, whence the arteries let it out again, gushing in pipes and clefts and ducts of all shapes and kinds, through and through its bulk, until it springs newborn to the light, and rushes down the mountain side in torrents, and down the valleys in rivers—down, down, rejoicing, to the mighty lungs of the world, that is the sea, where it is tossed in storms and cyclones, heaved up in billows, twisted in waterspouts, dashed to mist upon rocks, beaten by millions of tails, and breathed by millions of gills, whence at last, melted into vapour by the sun, it is lifted up pure into the air, and borne by the servant winds back to the mountain tops and the snow, the solid ice, and the molten stream.

Poor little Tom, in his rags, approached, and was moving slowly and timidly past the sentinels, with a beating heart and a rising hope, when all at once he caught sight through the golden bars of a spectacle that almost made him shout for joy. Within was a comely boy, tanned and brown with sturdy outdoor sports and exercises, whose clothing was all of lovely silks and satins, shining with jewels; at his hip a little jeweled sword and dagger; dainty buskins on his feet, with red heels; and on his head a jaunty crimson cap, with drooping plumes fastened with a great sparkling gem. Several gorgeous gentlemen stood near,—his servants, without a doubt. Oh! he was a prince—a prince, a living prince, a real prince—without the shadow of a question; and the prayer of the pauper-boy’s heart was answered at last.

Through Poppy’s eyes, she learned to see the treasures that the mountains held for those who lowered their eyes and let them linger on the ground: neat little mats of wild thyme encrusted on sun-baked rocks and stones covered with pin cushions of yellow saxifrage bobbing up and down between the sparkling ripples of the mountain streams. Lucy had passed waterfalls where tall, pink adenostyles stood proudly at the edge to be showered and splashed, and frothy clumps of white saxifrage cascaded from crannies in the shining, rocky sides into the tumbling waters below. She had wandered across hillsides where wild cumin blew on the breeze, ambled under the cool shadows of the pinewoods punctuated by bright, dainty astrantia and plodged through mountain bogs amongst the fluffy white drumsticks of cotton grass. 

Here he seeks out his last master: he wants to fight him and his last god; for ultimate victory he wants to fight with the great dragon. Who is the great dragon whom the spirit will no longer call lord and god? “Thou shalt” is the name of the great dragon. But the spirit of the lion says, “I will.” “Thou shalt” lies in his way, sparkling like gold, an animal covered with scales; and on every scale shines a golden “thou shalt.” Values, thousands of years old, shine on these scales; and thus speaks the mightiest of all dragons: “All value of all things shines on me. All value has long been created, and I am all created value. Verily, there shall be no more ‘I will.’ ” Thus speaks the dragon. My brothers, why is there a need in the spirit for the lion? Why is not the beast of burden, which renounces and is reverent, enough?

Hey—we have a problem. You have some unexpected guests down at the gate. You should go check it out.” Guests? Who would come here to see me? I hop in the golf cart and drive down to the main gate. Just in time to hear Franny Barrister, the Countess of Ellington, tearing into a poor, clueless Matched security guard. “Don’t you tell me we can’t come in, you horse’s arse. Where’s Henry—what have you done with him?” Simon, my brother’s best friend, sees me approach, his sparkling blue eyes shining. “There he is.” I nod to security and open the gate. “Simon, Franny, what are you doing here?” “Nicholas said you didn’t sound right the last time he spoke to you. He asked us to peek in on you,” Simon explains. Franny’s shrewd gaze rakes me over. “He doesn’t look drunk. And he obviously hasn’t hung himself from the rafters—that’s better than I was expecting.” “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Simon peers around the grounds, at the smattering of crew members and staging tents. “What the hell is going on, Henry?” I clear my throat. “So . . . the thing is . . . I’m sort of . . . filming a reality dating television show here at the castle and we started with twenty women and now we’re down to four, and when it’s over one of them will get the diamond tiara and become my betrothed. At least in theory.” It sounded so much better in my head. “Don’t tell Nicholas.” Simon scrubs his hand down his face. “Now I’m going to have to avoid his calls—I’m terrible with secrets.” And Franny lets loose a peal of tinkling laughter. “This is fabulous! You never disappoint, you naughty boy.” She pats my arm. “And don’t worry, when the Queen boots you out of the palace, Simon and I will adopt you. Won’t we, darling?” Simon nods. “Yes, like a rescue dog.” “Good to know.” Then I gesture back to their car. “Well . . . it was nice of you to stop by.” Simon shakes his head. “You’re not getting rid of us that easily, mate.” “Yes, we’re definitely staying.” Franny claps her hands. “I have to see this!” Fantastic.

The knight stood on the mountaintop breathing deeply, and an overwhelming sense of well-being swept through him. He grew dizzy from the enchantment of seeing, hearing, and feeling the universe all around him. Before, fear of the unknown had dulled his senses, but now he was able to experience everything with breathtaking clarity. The warmth of the afternoon sun, the melody of the gentle mountain breeze, and the beauty of nature's shapes and colors that painted the landscape as far as his eyes could see filled the knight with indescribable pleasure. His heart brimmed with love—for himself, for [his friends], for life, and for the entire wondrous world. (...) The knight cried out with joy. No more would he don his armor and ride off in all directions. No more would people see the shining reflection of steel and think that the sun was rising in the north or setting in the east. He smiled through his tears, unaware that a radiant, new light now shone from him—a light far brighter and more beautiful than his armor at its polished best—sparkling like a brook, shining like the moon, dazzling like the sun. For, indeed, the knight was the brook. He was the moon. He was the sun. He could be all these things at once now, and more, because he was one with the universe. He was love.

THE RETURN OF THE GODS Like a white bird upon the wind, the sail of the boat of Manannan mac Lir (Pronounced Mananarn mak Leer), the Son of the Sea, flew across the sparkling waves filled with the breeze that blew Westward to the Islands of the Blessed. The Sun Goddess above him smiled down with warmth upon her friend. The fish in the ocean danced for him beneath the turquoise water; the porpoises leapt above the waves to greet him. Upon the wind was a smell of sweetness, the smell of apple blossom in the Spring of the morning of the world. And in the prow of the boat sat Lugh (Pronounced Loo) the long-armed; strumming on his harp, he sang the Song of Creation. And as they drew closer to the green hills of Ireland, the holy land of Ireland, the Shee came out of their earth-barrow homes and danced for joy beneath the Sun. For hidden in a crane-skin sack at the bottom of the boat was the Holy Cup of Blessedness. Long had been her journeying through lands strange and far. And all who drank of that Cup, dreamed the dreams of holy truth, and drank of the Wine of everlasting life. And deep within the woods, in a green-clad clearing, where the purple anemone and the white campion bloomed, where primroses still lingered on the shadowed Northern side, a great stag lifted up his antlered head and sniffed the morning. His antlers seven-forked spoke of mighty battles fought and won, red was his coat, the colour of fire, and he trotted out of his greenwood home, hearing on the wind the song of Lugh. And in her deep barrow home, the green clad Goddess of Erin, remembered the tongue that she had forgotten. She remembered the secrets of the weaving of spells, She remembered the tides of woman and the ebb and flow of wave and Moon. She remembered the people who had turned to other Gods and coming out of her barrow of sleep, her sweet voice echoed the verses of Lugh and the chorus of Manannan. And the great stag of the morning came across the fields to her and where had stood the Goddess now stood a white hind. And the love of the God was returned by the Goddess and the larks of Anghus mac Og hovering above the field echoed with ecstasy the Song of Creation. And in the villages and towns the people came out of their houses, hearing the sweet singing and seeking its source. And children danced in the streets with delight. And they went down to the shore, the Eastern shore, where rises the Sun of the Morning, and awaited the coming of Manannan and Lugh, the mast of their boat shining gold in the Sun. The sea had spoken, the Eastern dawn had given up her secret, the Gods were returning, the Old Ones awakening, joy was returning unto the sleeping land.  

The masses of dense foliage all round became prison walls, impassable circular green ice-walls, surging towards her; just before they closed in, I caught the terrified glint of her eyes. On a winter day she was in the studio, posing for him in the nude, her arms raised in a graceful position. To hold it for any length of time must have been a strain, I wondered how she managed to keep so still; until I saw the cords attached to her wrists and ankles. Instead of the darkness, she faced a stupendous sky-conflagration, an incredible glacial dream-scene. Cold coruscations of rainbow fire pulsed overhead, shot through by shafts of pure incandescence thrown out by mountains of solid ice towering all round. Closer, the trees round the house, sheathed in ice, dripped and sparkled with weird prismatic jewels, reflecting the vivid changing cascades above. Instead of the familiar night sky, the aurora borealis formed a blazing, vibrating roof of intense cold and colour, beneath which the earth was trapped with all its inhabitants, walled in by those impassable glittering ice-cliffs. The world had become an arctic prison from which no escape was possible, all its creatures trapped as securely as were the trees, already lifeless inside their deadly resplendent armour. Frozen by the deathly cold emanating from the ice, dazzled by the blaze of crystalline ice-light, she felt herself becoming part of the polar vision, her structure becoming one with the structure of ice and snow. As her fate, she accepted the world of ice, shining, shimmering, dead; she resigned herself to the triumph of glaciers and the death of her world. Fear was the climate she lived in; if she had ever known kindness it would have been different. The trees seemed to obstruct her with deliberate malice. All her life she had thought of herself as a foredoomed victim, and now the forest had become the malign force that would destroy her. In desperation she tried to run, but a hidden root tripped her, she almost fell. Branches caught in her hair, tugged her back, lashed out viciously when they were disentangled. The silver hairs torn from her head glittered among black needles; they were the clues her pursuers would follow, leading them to their victim. She escaped from the forest at length only to see the fjord waiting for her. An evil effluence rose from the water, something primitive, savage, demanding victims, hungry for a human victim. It had been night overhead all along, but below it was still daylight. There were no clouds. I saw islands scattered over the sea, a normal aerial view. Then something extraordinary, out of this world: a wall of rainbow ice jutting up from the sea, cutting right across, pushing a ridge of water ahead of it as it moved, as if the flat pale surface of sea was a carpet being rolled up. It was a sinister, fascinating sight, which did not seem intended for human eyes. I stared down at it, seeing other things at the same time. The ice world spreading over our world. Mountainous walls of ice surrounding the girl. Her moonwhite skin, her hair sparkling with diamond prisms under the moon. The moon’s dead eye watching the death of our world.