Spring Has Sprung Quotes

Like a noose around my neck, The Fates have tied a string to you and me. It tightened around my roots and pulled me from the ground long enough for you to put the pomegranate seeds in my mouth. And I should want to make you bleed dear Hades, but all I keep on thinking is how good the darkness tastes to me. And when Spring has sprung, I’ll use my powers to grow my roses with the sharpest of thorns, and you won’t know what is happening until I make you bleed. Love, Persephone

The life absolute from which has sprung all that is felt, seen, and perceived, and into which all again merges in time, is a silent, motionless and eternal life which among the Sufis is called Zat. Every motion that springs forth from this silent life is a vibration and a creator of vibrations. Within one vibration are created many vibrations.

Apropos of this, I asked my father one day whether it would be possible for me to see Mme. de Stael. My father, mother, and Alphonse all burst out laughing, and Alphonse said: “Where in the world has she sprung from?” To which my father replied: “What fools we are! She springs from the Carmelites.” “My child, Mme. de Stael is dead,” said my mother gently.

Complexity catastrophes help explain why bureaucracy seems to grow with the tenacity of weeds. Many companies go through bureaucracy-clearing exercises only to find it has sprung back a few years later. No one ever sits down to deliberately design a bureaucratic muddle. Instead, bureaucracy springs up as people just try to optimize their local patch of the network: finance is just trying to ensure that the numbers add up, legal wants to keep us out of jail, and marketing is trying to promote the brand. The problem isn't dumb people or evil intentions. Rather, network growth creates interdependencies, interdependencies create conflicting constraints, and conflicting constraints create slow decision making and, ultimately, bureaucratic gridlock.

See, birds of every varied voice Around us in the woods rejoice, On creeper, shrub, and plant alight, Or wing from tree to tree their flight. Each bird his kindly mate has found, And loud their notes of triumph sound, Blending in sweetest music like The distant warblings of the shrike. See how the river banks are lined With birds of every hue and kind. Here in his joy the Koïl sings, There the glad wild-cock flaps his wings. The blooms of bright Aśokas526where The song of wild bees fills the air, And the soft whisper of the boughs Increase my longing for my spouse. The vernal flush of flower and spray Will burn my very soul away. What use, what care have I for life If I no more may see my wife Soft speaker with the glorious hair, And eyes with silken lashes fair? Now is the time when all day long The Koïls fill the woods with song. And gardens bloom at spring's sweet touch Which my beloved loved so much. Ah me, Sumitrá's son, the fire Of sorrow, sprung from soft desire, Fanned by the charms the spring time shows, Will burn my heart and end my woes, Whose sad eyes look on each fair tree,

She knows she should feel excited about her acceptance to Emory and the promise of spring break. She should feel infinite and hopeful, like the growing earth around her. Like the sunlight, which stretches longer each day, asking for one more minute, one more oak tree to shimmer on. Like the late March mornings, which arrive carrying a gentle heat, rocking it back and forth over the pavement in the parking lot, letting it crawl forth over the grass and the tree roots, nurturing it while it is still nascent and tender, before it turns into swollen summer. But while the whole earth prepares for spring, Hannah feels a great anxiety in her heart, for something dangerous has grown in her, something she never planted or even wanted to plant. It’s there. She knows it’s there. If she’s truthful with herself, she’s probably known it all along. But now, as the days grow longer and the Garden District grows greener, she can actually see it. It has sprung up at last, and it refuses to be unseen. She tells herself it’s passing. It’s temporary. It’s intensified only because she’s a senior and all of her emotions are heightened. It’s innocent. It’s typical for a girl her age. It’s no more or less of a feeling than everyone else has had at 17. But deep down, deep below the topsoil of her heart, she knows it’s not. Still, she pushes it down inside of her, buries it as far as it can go, suffocates it in the space between her stomach and her heart. She tells herself that she is stronger, that she can fight it, that she has control. That no one else has to know. I can ignore it, she thinks. I can refuse to look at it. I can stomp on it every time it springs up within me. So she lies to herself that everything is normal. That she is normal. She carries herself through the end of the school week by refusing to acknowledge it. By refusing to align her heart with the growing sunlight and the nurturing heat and the flowering plants and the tall, proud trees. ‘You alright?’ Baker asks, when Hannah says goodbye to her after school on Friday. Hannah stomps, buries, suffocates, wishes for death. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I’m good.

Spring Has Finally Sprung God... The Creator of Time God... The Axis of The Universe Be Forever Glorified

The most important point for us here, however, is the relation of child activity to one of the basic elements of character; the habit of industry, with all that it means for success and happiness, springs directly from the restless activity of the child, as the plant springs from the seed. The tramp and the lazy man are persons in whom the precious shoot of activity has somehow been marred or broken beyond repair; the early activity has been wasted or repressed, and the vital habit that should have sprung from it is lost.

When Spring has sprung... Spring with it!

MAN IN THE WATER   Her eyes doubt and yet bear a curiosity. She wonders in her mind even when thinking of what she wonders is already known. Cautious and shy she dances around the shining water that calls for her lips to taste and her feet to feel. The man in the water tempts her lusts and still she walks by, still smiling and still staring. Only in her dreams can she imagine what the man in the water would have given. What he would’ve shared with her. Only in her dreams will she imagine the feeling when spring has sprung. Where life is filled with the gift of color and a light that changes all of them at once. A taste that satisfies the soul. That feeling of floating in space. There is only the memory of her haunting eyes that yearn but do not touch. Her angelic stride that shifts above the reflection in the water. Her soul trapped in her body as if careful to damage her skin that expires under the duress of time, holding her soul hostage in hopes that her skin, her image, will glow just as vibrant for one more day. And so the man calls for her once again, hoping that her being able to trust will free her from death. Hoping to love her. Hoping to taste the nectar of her soul. The part of her that hides behind the her that is visible. The part reflecting the depth in her eyes. The part that powers the heart. And losing myself to all of her.

You make me feel so young You make me feel like spring has sprung

When we got there, he had champagne and rose petals and candles all over. Everywhere.” The levity returned to his eyes. “Ouch.” “Yup. I got outta there. It really freaked me out. Because you know why?” “Why?” he asked. “He should know. He should know I wouldn’t like that, right? That means something, doesn’t it?” His expression grew a little serious. “Yeah, it does.” “Am I a bitch? I am, huh? That was really sweet, and I should have appreciated that. I am a bitch. I knew it.” He chuckled. “No. You’re honest.” He shook his head and talked into his beer. “And he did it all wrong.” I smirked. “Oh yeah?” “Yeah.” He put his glass down. “Let me guess—the ring was huge. Big rock?” “Oh my God, Josh, you don’t even know. It was enormous. He designed it and had it made. It had this red rope of rubies around the band and…” I took a deep breath remembering it. He’d spent a fortune on it and I’d hated it. It was so gaudy. “Why? What kind of ring should he have gotten me?” “None. You’d want to pick your own ring. You’d probably say something like, ‘I’m the one who has to look at it for the next fifty years.’ I would have taken you to buy it instead of just springing it on you.” “How do you know I wouldn’t like a ring sprung on me?” I said, narrowing my eyes. He scoffed. “The only thing you like sprung on you are snacks. You have an opinion about everything. You’re also really practical. You’d probably pick something reasonable. No diamonds. I’m thinking an etched band. Nothing that would need to be repaired or cleaned or that you’d have to take off to do the dishes.” He regarded me for a moment. “Something personal engraved inside. Something only the two of you would get.” He knows me. He knows me almost better than I know myself.

Being has no coming-into-being and no destruction, for it is whole of limb, without motion, and without end. And it never was, nor will be, because it is now, a whole all together, one, continuous; for what creation of it will you look? How, whence sprung? Nor shall I allow you to speak or think of it as springing from Not-Being; for it is neither expressible nor thinkable that what-is-not is. Also, what necessity impelled it, if it did spring from nothing, to be produced later or earlier? Thus, it must be absolutely, or not at all. Nor will the force of credibility ever admit that anything should come into being, beside being itself, out of not-being…Thus, coming-into-being is quenched and destruction also into the unseen. Nor is it divisible, since it is all alike. Nor is there anything there which could prevent it from holding together, nor any lesser thing, but all is full of being. Therefore, it is altogether continuous; for being is close to being…But it is motionless in the limits of mighty bonds, without beginning, without cease, since becoming and destruction have been driven very far away, and true conviction has rejected them…To think is the same as the thought that it is; for you will not find thinking without Being to which it refers. For nothing else either is or shall be except Being, since fate has tied it down to be a whole and motionless; therefore, all things that mortals have established, believing in their truth, are just a name: “becoming” and “perishing”, “being” and “not-being”, and change of position, and alteration of bright color.