Sunrise Promise Quotes

May every sunrise hold more promise and every sunset hold more peace...

That time of day when the sun hasn’t come up yet, but you can already feel it coming. It’s an elusive warmth, like a subtle promise whispered in your ear and you can go on with your day knowing you’ve been given another chance to get it right.

We no longer live on what we have, but on promises, no longer in the present day, but in the darkness of the future, which, we expect, will at last bring the proper sunrise. We refuse to recognize that everything better is purchased at the price of something worse; that, for example, the hope of grater freedom is canceled out by increased enslavement to the state, not to speak of the terrible perils to which the most brilliant discoveries of science expose us. The less we understand of what our [forebears] sought, the less we understand ourselves, and thus we help with all our might to rob the individual of his roots and his guiding instincts, so that he becomes a particle in the mass, ruled only by what Neitzche called the spirit of gravity. (p.236)

Marry me. You'll learn to love me, I promise.

Desire, when it stems from the heart and spirit, when it is pure and intense, possesses awesome electromagnetic energy. This energy is released into the ether each night, as the mind falls into the sleep state. Each morning it returns to the conscious state reinforced with the cosmic currents. That which has been imaged will surely and certainly be manifested. You can rely, young man, upon this ageless promise as surely as you can rely upon the eternally unbroken promise of sunrise... and of Spring.

The world has enough beautiful mountains and meadows, spectacular skies and serene lakes. It has enough lush forests, flowered fields and sandy beaches. It has plenty of stars and the promise of a new sunrise and sunset every day. What the world needs more of is people to appreciate and enjoy it.

But I can’t leave, not yet. I’ll stay with her until sunrise. If I brace my feet, I won’t slide. I can rest my cheek on the roof tile and still see her. Pacing. Pulling her hair. “I’ll fix you,” I tell her. “I promise.” Even though I don’t know how. It’s better than good-bye.

I don’t know your story or your dreams or the things that steal your sleep, but I know they matter. I hope you story is rich with characters, rich with friends and conversation. I hope you know some people who carry you, and I hope you have the honor of carrying them. I hope that there’s beauty in your memories, and I hope it doesn’t haunt you. And if it does, then I hope there is someone who will walk you through the night and remind you of the promise of the sunrise, that beauty keeps coming, that there are futures worth waiting and fighting for, and that you were made to dream.

Somewhere in the world at that moment, there was a birth, a death, a sunrise, and a sunset. There was despair, and a burst of laughter, a promise broken, and a vow made. And there was this kiss.

Loneliness isn't gray. It is the color of the sky when it bleeds crimson rays in the horizon while there you are standing on the edge somewhere in this boulevard of broken promises, waiting, and waiting for a love that already left.

Never take life for granted. Savor every sunrise, because no one is promised tomorrow…or even the rest of today.

The shadow raised its arm high in the air and I knew - I knew before I heard my name - that he'd found me again, keeper of the promise he couldn't make, the one I had marked with my blood and who had marked me with his tears, a Silencer all right, my silencer, stumbling toward me in the impossibly pure light of a late winter's sunrise promising spring.

I promise that your sunrise will always come, no matter how dark the night gets.

When love finds you, it doesn't come as crashing waves or thunderbolts. It appears as a song on the radio or a particular blue in the sky. It dawns on you slowly, like a warm winter sunrise—where the promise of summer shines out from within.

If you cooperate, I promise not to hit you-much. If you don't cooperate.....Well, I'll use my fists instead of an open hand got it?

A sunset is only half of the story.

People like that pissed me off - ones who couldn't see past their own misery to actually see that they were gifted with another day. Luca taught me that. He'd taught me that each sunrise was a new promise, a new beginning, a new chance at extraordinary.

I promised you a thousand sunrises and a thousand more after that, until the sun no longer rises from the sky and the world falls into darkness that only we could love.

Let us love like the spark Between flint and stone In reckless abandonment, Promising no eternities, But promising only to seek out Upon each day’s sunrise Something to choose to love In each other.

May your wedding night be like a kitchen table, all legs and no drawers.

The promise of light is to attempt and reach the farthest and darkest nights The promise of love is to keep a heartbeat for as long as a heart knows how to beat

Dear Jim." The writing grew suddenly blurred and misty. And she had lost him again--had lost him again! At the sight of the familiar childish nickname all the hopelessness of her bereavement came over her afresh, and she put out her hands in blind desperation, as though the weight of the earth-clods that lay above him were pressing on her heart. Presently she took up the paper again and went on reading: "I am to be shot at sunrise to-morrow. So if I am to keep at all my promise to tell you everything, I must keep it now. But, after all, there is not much need of explanations between you and me. We always understood each other without many words, even when we were little things. "And so, you see, my dear, you had no need to break your heart over that old story of the blow. It was a hard hit, of course; but I have had plenty of others as hard, and yet I have managed to get over them,--even to pay back a few of them,--and here I am still, like the mackerel in our nursery-book (I forget its name), 'Alive and kicking, oh!' This is my last kick, though; and then, tomorrow morning, and--'Finita la Commedia!' You and I will translate that: 'The variety show is over'; and will give thanks to the gods that they have had, at least, so much mercy on us. It is not much, but it is something; and for this and all other blessings may we be truly thankful! "About that same tomorrow morning, I want both you and Martini to understand clearly that I am quite happy and satisfied, and could ask no better thing of Fate. Tell that to Martini as a message from me; he is a good fellow and a good comrade, and he will understand. You see, dear, I know that the stick-in-the-mud people are doing us a good turn and themselves a bad one by going back to secret trials and executions so soon, and I know that if you who are left stand together steadily and hit hard, you will see great things. As for me, I shall go out into the courtyard with as light a heart as any child starting home for the holidays. I have done my share of the work, and this death-sentence is the proof that I have done it thoroughly. They kill me because they are afraid of me; and what more can any man's heart desire? "It desires just one thing more, though. A man who is going to die has a right to a personal fancy, and mine is that you should see why I have always been such a sulky brute to you, and so slow to forget old scores. Of course, though, you understand why, and I tell you only for the pleasure of writing the words. I loved you, Gemma, when you were an ugly little girl in a gingham frock, with a scratchy tucker and your hair in a pig-tail down your back; and I love you still. Do you remember that day when I kissed your hand, and when you so piteously begged me 'never to do that again'? It was a scoundrelly trick to play, I know; but you must forgive that; and now I kiss the paper where I have written your name. So I have kissed you twice, and both times without your consent. "That is all. Good-bye, my dear" Then am I A happy fly, If I live Or if I die

Desire, when it stems from the heart and spirit, when it is pure and intense, possesses awesome electromagnetic energy. This energy is released into the ether each night, as the mind falls into the sleep state. Each morning it returns to the conscious state reinforced with the cosmic currents. That which has been imaged will surely and certainly be manifested. You can rely, young man, upon this ageless promise as surely as you can rely upon the eternally unbroken promise of sunrise... and of Spring. When the student is ready, the teacher will appear—How

Here, on this deck, I’d kissed my husband at sunrise and made impossible promises over sunsets. Here, we’d made little paper boats of our dreams and set them adrift on love’s vast shore. So, here, I turned in our lover’s arms and told him I loved him.

and maybe one day, i won't be so broken anymore and one day, i will find the lost pieces of me again and then there will be another sunrise where i would glue them back and the next day, i will stand in front of the mirror, smiling at my repaired soul again and that will be the day when my night will end and i will bid the moon a soft goodbye with a promise to visit sometime again to the stars shining in that dark sky

I missed the spread of the sky above me. Sometimes as I lay awake, I yearned so powerfully for freedom; for the dark silhouette of the Argo, blotting out the stars behind it; the promise of another journey and another land with every sunrise; thate resentment churned stomach, it's bile scolding my throat.

Somewhere in the world at that moment, there was a birth, a death, a sunrise, and a sunset. There was despair, and a burst of laughter, a promise broken, and a vow made.

he claimed to have seen sunrise from every angle. Never sunset, though. Beginnings were far more interesting than endings. One held promise, the other only darkness.

Don’t be late or I may end up marrying the judge.

Yep, it sticks to your ribs, doesn’t it?” “It’s stuck to the cup, Tyler.

Tender like a promise. Tender like a sunrise. Tender like your key in the front door at midnight, letting you in, welcoming you home.

Even in her cap and gown Susan looked like a sunrise, extravagant and full of promise. Wherever she went things seemed, as they always did, to organize around her.

Each sunrise brings with it a whisper of fresh hope, silently promising that today holds new chances to breathe easier.

Creation’s seventh sunrise We stand before the burning bush of time The six days were good But the seventh He called holy Creation’s seventh sunrise We wake and go to work six days a week To struggle with the strain and stress But the Lords’ provided for the care of our souls A day of rejoice and rest Creation’s seventh sunrise We stand before the burning bush of time The six days were good But the seventh He called holy Creation’s seventh sunrise Come see a sanctuary made of time Come speak forgotten words of prayer It calls us, “Come away from your dissonant days” “Come out and breathe the garden air.” (leave your worries there) Creation’s seventh sunrise We stand before the burning bush of time The six days were good But the seventh He called holy Creation’s seventh sunrise And the promise of that rest still stands To all who would be free And though we might be bound by time We can taste Eternity

but your letter, it reminded me of those sunrises I watch every morning, and that sacred moment when light and dark can co-exist, making something beautiful across the sky. I’ve always been the dark, but you’ve always been the light, Ollie, and together, our love burns in color. You are my every beautiful sacred moment, and I promise to stay for the rest of my life.

Somewhere in the world at that moment, there was a birth, a death, a sunrise, and a sunset. There was despair, and a burst of laughter, a promise broken, and a vow made. And there was this kiss.

We have no idea how important this is,” I find myself whispering, my voice feeling rough and raw. “The sunrise?” Daisy asks. She’s in awe as the colors change before our eyes. I swallow the lump in my throat. “To see the dawn of the new days. Sometimes it feels like the world around us is collapsing. Sometimes it’s the world inside us. But the sun always rises. It always promises that we can start again. It’s the one thing we can count on when we can’t count on anything else.

We are coral. Rocks at the bottom of the ocean. ¿What's it gonna be like during the day? Coco Liso didn't promise a van at sunrise. We're walking until sunset. Looking for Rhino Mountain. Chino comes back faster, a giant fish swimming toward us.

I know I’ve given you reason to doubt me, Oliver, but I promise that’s behind us. I’m here. I’m yours.” He brings my hand to his chest. “I promise it all—my body, my soul, my life, for you, everything for you, to care for you and love you, if you’ll let me. You’re the fucking sunrise of my heart, love. All I need is to wake up beside you, to hold your hand and keep you steady when you need me, to watch you with pride and admiration, to give you hell for not being more selfish on the field and too generous off of it. I love you. Do you believe me?” Nodding, frantic, I tell him, “Yes.” I pull him close, kiss him soft and slow, and he kisses me, too, his mouth firm, smooth, so gentle, remembering mine. “I love you,” I tell him. “I love you so much.

Somewhere in the world at that moment, there was a birth, a death, a sunrise, and a sunset. There was despair, and a burst of laughter, a promise broken, and a vow made. And there was this kiss. It was far from disappointing. CHAPTER 35 In November, Christmas came early.

live and love fully, to embrace human vulnerability rather than exploit it, to try to make sense of our place in this fragile yet beautiful world, to seek to understand our role in proclaiming God’s love and justice—this has been the work of generations. It’s the quest that creates our greatest works of art and our most profound moments of quiet tenderness. It’s the promise that calls us to greet every sunrise and surrender to every sunset. It’s the best hope of our oldest prayers, both on the days when I believe as well as on the days when I don’t.

Go to your happy place. Go to the house, the one with the red door and the white picket fence. Go back to where nighttime meant kisses and hugs, bedtime stories and cuddles with Buster. Go to where sunrises were promises instead of just false hope. Go to where love still lives.

Do you know why the lotus is one of my favorite flowers?" I cocked my head to one side so I could see his expression. He shook his head. "This beautiful flower lives in the most vile, muddy water of swamps and bogs," I said and rubbed the smooth metal of the pendant between my fingers. He frowned. "No, seriously... the grosser the environment, the better," I said. "So let me get this straight. You like a flower that lives in disgusting places?" One of his eyebrows rose. "That ain't right." "No, I love this flower," I corrected. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, "Seriously?" "What?" You don't believe me?" "Sure, I believe you. It's just weird." "I'll tell you why, but only if you promise not to laugh," I said. He nodded. Taking a cleansing breath, I rested my head against the seat, closed my eyes, and took that scary first step. "This flower stays in the mud and muck all night long." I peeked at him without moving my head. His face had become set in the smooth lines of one who listens intently. "Then, at sunrise, it climbs toward the light and opens into a pristine bloom. After the sun goes down, the bloom sinks into the mire. Even though it spends the whole night underwater, the flower emerges every morning as beautiful as the day before." Smiling, I swiveled in my seat to face him. "I love this flower because it reminds me that we get second chances every day, no matter what muck life drags us through.

I promise that the brilliant morning of forgiveness can come. Then “the peace of God, which passeth all understanding” comes into your life once again, something like a sunrise, and you and He “will remember your sin no more.” How will you know? You will know! This is what I have come to teach you who are in trouble. He will step in and solve the problem you cannot solve, but you have to pay the price. It does not come without doing that. He is a very kind ruler in the sense that He will always pay the price necessary, but He wants you to do what you should, even if it is painful.

Damn it, Charlotte, we will find a way to make this work. This is my life. This is your life. This is his life. And her life. This is our life and you know it. We'll figure out the details later, but for now, all I need from you is a promise that we are going to do this. No matter what. We're in this together.

Penelope Sheehan, I love you more than the sunrise over the ocean, more than freedom. I would die, willingly, to keep you from a moment's pain. I promise you the full strength of my back and spirit in our shared journey, all the days of our lives. I will never forsake or betray you. I am yours to my last breath.

He could remember the way she felt in his arms, her back to his chest as they watched the sunrise. The whole world had been alive then, full of promise. They had been young. So fucking young. Strong. Neither of them had known how broken they could be, how easy it was to take a life and snap it like a twig until nothing remained but meaningless pieces.

Duroy, who felt light hearted that evening, said with a smile: "You are gloomy to-day, dear master." The poet replied: "I am always so, young man, so will you be in a few years. Life is a hill. As long as one is climbing up one looks towards the summit and is happy, but when one reaches the top one suddenly perceives the descent before one, and its bottom, which is death. One climbs up slowly, but one goes down quickly. At your age a man is happy. He hopes for many things, which, by the way, never come to pass. At mine, one no longer expects anything - but death." Duroy began to laugh: "You make me shudder all over." Norbert de Varenne went on: "No, you do not understand me now, but later on you will remember what I am saying to you at this moment. A day comes, and it comes early for many, when there is an end to mirth, for behind everything one looks at one sees death. You do not even understand the word. At your age it means nothing; at mine it is terrible. Yes, one understands it all at once, one does not know how or why, and then everything in life changes its aspect. For fifteen years I have felt death assail me as if I bore within me some gnawing beast. I have felt myself decaying little by little, month by month, hour by hour, like a house crumbling to ruin. Death has disfigured me so completely that I do not recognize myself. I have no longer anything about me of myself - of the fresh, strong man I was at thirty. I have seen death whiten my black hairs, and with what skillful and spiteful slowness. Death has taken my firm skin, my muscles, my teeth, my whole body of old, only leaving me a despairing soul, soon to be taken too. Every step brings me nearer to death, every movemebt, every breath hastens his odious work. To breathe, sleep, drink, eat, work, dream, everything we do is to die. To live, in short, is to die. Oh, you will realize this. If you stop and think for a moment you will understand. What do you expect? Love? A few more kisses and you will be impotent. Then money? For what? Women? Much fun that will be! In order to eat a lot and grow fat and lie awake at night suffering from gout? And after that? Glory? What use is that when it does not take the form of love? And after that? Death is always the end. I now see death so near that I often want to stretch my arms to push it back. It covers the earth and fills the universe. I see it everywhere. The insects crushed on the path, the falling leaves, the white hair in a friend's head, rend my heart and cry to me, 'Behold it!' It spoils for me all I do, all I see, all that I eat and drink, all that I love; the bright moonlight, the sunrise, the broad ocean, the noble rivers, and the soft summer evening air so sweet to breath." He walked on slowly, dreaming aloud, almost forgetting that he had a listener: "And no one ever returns - never. The model of a statue may be preserved, but my body, my face, my thoughts, my desires will never reappear again. And yet millions of beings will be born with a nose, eyes, forehead, cheeks, and mouth like me, and also a soul like me, without my ever returning, without even anything recognizable of me appearing in these countless different beings. What can we cling to? What can we believe in? All religions are stupid, with their puerile morality and their egotistical promises, monstrously absurd. Death alone is certain." "Think of that, young man. Think of it for days, and months and years, and life will seem different to you. Try to get away from all the things that shut you in. Make a superhuman effort to emerge alive from your own body, from your own interests, from your thoughts, from humanity in general, so that your eyes may be turned in the opposite direction. Then you understand how unimportant is the quarrel between Romanticism and Realism, or the Budget debates.

We rush impetuously into novelty, driven by a mounting sense of insufficiency, dissatisfaction, and restlessness. We no longer live on what we have, but on promises, no longer in the light of the present day, but in the darkness of the future, which, we expect, will at last bring a proper sunrise. We refuse to recognize that everything better is purchased at the price of something worse.

Something new is blowing. On a downtown Kingston wall: IMF—Is Manley Fault. General election called for October 30, 1980. Somebody is driving you through Bavaria, near the Austrian border. A hospital sprouting out of the forest like magic. Hills in the background tipped with snow like cake icing. You meet the tall and frosty Bavarian, the man who helps the hopeless. He smiles but his eyes are set too far back and they vanish in the shadow of his brow. Cancer is a red alert that the whole body is in danger, he says. Thank God the food he forbids, Rastafari had forbidden long time. A sunrise is a promise. Something new is blowing. November 1980. A new party wins the general election and the man who killed me steps up to the podium with his brothers to take over the country. He has been waiting for so long he leaps up the stairs and trips.

I want us to be faithful to each other,” she said gravely. “From this day forward.” There was a brief silence, a hesitation born not of doubt, but awareness. As if their vows were being heard and witnessed by some unseen presence. Merripen’s chest rose and fell in a long, deep breath. “I’ll be faithful to you,” he said. “Forever.” “So will I.” “Promise also that you’ll never leave me again.” Win lifted her hand from the center of his chest and pressed a kiss there. “I promise.

A thousand times over with you, I yearned to linger in a perfect moment and stop the passing of time. A thousand times over with you, I caught your tender smile and tucked it carefully away in my heart for safekeeping. A thousand times over with you, I took in your sunny gaze and hoarded its light for the wintry season. A thousand times over with you, I heard your laughter and sat silent as it vibrated like music in my soul. A thousand times over with you, I saw your eyes twinkle like stars, and I made a wish for forever. A thousand times over with you, I noted wisdom in your years, and I filed away your thoughtful words. A thousand times over with you, I felt the warmth of your hand in mine and squeezed tight, reluctant to let go. A thousand times over with you, I pondered how quickly mortality ushers us from sunrise to sunset, and I dreaded the night. A thousand times over with you, I embraced the promise of immortality, dreaming of a day when perfect moments linger pleasantly on and on and on a thousand times over with you.

But it is precisely the loss of connection with the past, our uprootedness, which has given rise to the “discontents” of civilization and to such a flurry and haste that we live more in the future and its chimerical promises of a golden age than in the present, with which our whole evolutionary background has not yet caught up. We rush impetuously into novelty, driven by a mounting sense of insufficiency, dissatisfaction, and restlessness. We no longer live on what we have, but on promises, no longer in the light of the present day, but in the darkness of the future, which, we expect, will at last bring the proper sunrise. We refuse to recognize that everything better is purchased at the price of something worse; that, for example, the hope of greater freedom is canceled out by increased enslavement to the state, not to speak of the terrible perils to which the most brilliant discoveries of science expose us. The less we understand of what our fathers and forefathers sought, the less we understand ourselves, and thus we help with all our might to rob the individual of his roots and his guiding instincts, so that he becomes a particle in the mass, ruled only by what Nietzsche called the spirit of gravity.

The camp delivered on it's promise, concentrating all the idylls of youth: beauty manifest in lakes, mountains, people; richness in experience, conversation, friendships. Nights during a full moon, the light flooded the wilderness, so it was possible to hike without a headlamp. We would hit the trail at two am, summiting the nearest peak, Mount Tallac, just before sunrise, the clear, starry night reflected in the flat, still lakes spread below us. Snuggled together in sleeping bags at the peak, nearly ten thousand feet up, we weathered frigid blasts of wind with coffee someone had been thoughtful enough to bring.

sunsets are for the romantics, for the idealists and the believers. for those fond of the calm, those who've been sheltered, who've never had to weather a storm. but sunrises, sunrises are for the survivors, for the ones who've weathered storms, the ones left standing after a hell of a night in the er, the ones holding your hand through darkness, because they've learned to only need the light inside them. sunsets are for first dates, for exchanging names and hobbies and talking about dreams. sunrises are for the few who will survive nightmares with you, who will help you fight monsters and slay dragons. sunsets are for promises, but sunrises are for reality, for the grittiness of it, for the bags under your eyes, messy hair and spotty skin. sunrises are where life begins. so, i guess what i'm saying is - fall asleep only next to the ones you want to see the first thing in the morning.

Blessed be the Lord  hGod of Israel, for he has  ivisited and  jredeemed his people 69 and  khas raised up  la horn of salvation for us min the house of his servant David, 70  nas  ohe spoke by the mouth of his holy prophets from of old, 71  pthat we should be saved from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us; 72  qto show the mercy promised to our fathers and  rto remember his holy  scovenant, 73  tthe oath that he swore to our father Abraham, to grant us 74 that we, being delivered from the hand of our enemies, might serve him  uwithout fear, 75  vin holiness and righteousness before him  wall our days. 76 And you, child, will be called  xthe prophet of  ythe Most High; for  zyou will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, 77 to give knowledge of salvation to his people ain the forgiveness of their sins, 78 because of the  btender mercy of our God, whereby cthe sunrise shall dvisit us [8] efrom on high 79 to  fgive light to  gthose who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into  hthe way of  ipeace.

Psalm 5 Song of the Clouded Dawn For the Pure and Shining One, for her who receives the inheritance.11 By King David. 1Listen to my passionate prayer! Can’t You hear my groaning? 2Don’t You hear how I’m crying out to You? My King and my God, consider my every word, For I am calling out to You. 3At each and every sunrise You will hear my voice As I prepare my sacrifice of prayer to You. Every morning I lay out the pieces of my life on the altar And wait for Your fire to fall upon my heart.12 4I know that You, God, Are never pleased with lawlessness, And evil ones will never be invited As guests in Your house. 5Boasters collapse, unable to survive Your scrutiny, For Your hatred of evildoers is clear. 6You will make an end of all those who lie. How You hate their hypocrisy And despise all who love violence! 7But I know the way back home, And I know that You will welcome me Into Your house, For I am covered by Your covenant of mercy and love. So I come to Your sanctuary with deepest awe, To bow in worship and adore You. 8Lord, lead me in the pathways of Your pleasure, Just like You promised me You would, Or else my enemies will conquer me. Smooth out Your road in front of me, Straight and level so that I will know where to walk. 9For you can’t trust anything they say. Their hearts are nothing but deep pits of destruction, Drawing people into their darkness with their speeches. They are smooth-tongued deceivers Who flatter with their words! 10Declare them guilty, O God! Let their own schemes be their downfall! Let the guilt of their sins collapse on top of them, For they rebel against You. 11But let them all be glad, Those who turn aside to hide themselves in You, May they keep shouting for joy forever! Overshadow them in Your presence As they sing and rejoice, Then every lover of Your name Will burst forth with endless joy. 12Lord, how wonderfully You bless the righteous. Your favor wraps around each one and Covers them Under Your canopy of kindness and joy. 11. 5:Title The Hebrew word used here is Neliloth, or “flutes.” It can also be translated “inheritances.” The early church father, Augustine, translated this: “For her who receives the inheritance,” meaning the church of Jesus Christ. God the Father told the Son in Psalm 2 to ask for His inheritance; here we see it is the church that receives what Jesus asks for. We receive our inheritance of eternal life through the cross and resurrection of the Son of God. The Septuagint reads “For the end,” also found in numerous inscriptions of the Psalms. 12. 5:3 Implied in the concept of preparing the morning sacrifice. The Aramaic text states, “At dawn I shall be ready and shall appear before You.

We have a timber yard?" Leo asked. Miss Marks replied, "Mr. Merripen is planning to construct houses for the new tenant farmers." "This is the first I've heard of it. Why are we providing houses for them?" Leo's tone was not at all censuring, merely interested. But Miss Marks's lips thinned, as if she had interpreted his question as a complaint. "The most recent tenants to join the estate were lured by the promise of new houses. They are already successful farmers, educated and forward-looking, and Mr. Merripen believes their presence will add to the estate's prosperity. Other local estates, such as Stony Cross Park, are also building homes for their tenants and laborers-" "It's all right," Leo interrupted. "No need to be defensive, Marks. God knows I wouldn't think of interfering with Merripen's plans after seeing all he's done so far." He glanced at the housekeeper. "If you'll point the way, Mrs. Barnstable, I'll go out and find Merripen. Perhaps I might help to unload the timber wagon." "A footman will show you the way," the housekeeper said at once. "But the work is occasionally hazardous, my lord, and not fitting for a man of your station." Miss Marks added in a light but caustic tone, "Besides, it is doubtful you could be of any help." The housekeeper's mouth fell open. Win had to bite back a grin. Miss Marks had spoken as if Leo were a small weed of a man instead of a strapping six-footer.

Eventually the term ended and I was on the windy mountain road to camp, still slightly worried that I’d made a wrong turn in life. My doubt, however, was short-lived. The camp delivered on its promise, concentrating all the idylls of youth: beauty manifest in lakes, mountains, people; richness in experience, conversation, friendships. Nights during a full moon, the light flooded the wilderness, so it was possible to hike without a headlamp. We would hit the trail at two A.M., summiting the nearest peak, Mount Tallac, just before sunrise, the clear, starry night reflected in the flat, still lakes spread below us. Snuggled together in sleeping bags at the peak, nearly ten thousand feet up, we weathered frigid blasts of wind with coffee someone had been thoughtful enough to bring. And then we would sit and watch as the first hint of sunlight, a light tinge of day blue, would leak out of the eastern horizon, slowly erasing the stars. The day sky would spread wide and high, until the first ray of the sun made an appearance. The morning commuters began to animate the distant South Lake Tahoe roads. But craning your head back, you could see the day’s blue darken halfway across the sky, and to the west, the night remained yet unconquered—pitch-black, stars in full glimmer, the full moon still pinned in the sky. To the east, the full light of day beamed toward you; to the west, night reigned with no hint of surrender. No philosopher can explain the sublime better than this, standing between day and night. It was as if this were the moment God said, “Let there be light!” You could not help but feel your specklike existence against the immensity of the mountain, the earth, the universe, and yet still feel your own two feet on the talus, reaffirming your presence amid the grandeur.

March 9 Sunrise The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech.—Psalm 19:1-2a Jesus is coming today. What a glorious thought! Time alone with my Lord is my favorite part of waking up. The light of God’s Word brilliantly illuminates darkness. One day Jesus will come for those who know him. Imagine the joy! God often dispels early morning darkness with beautiful pastels. I look up from God’s Word to the east window. Light begins to barely peek through. Rays fan out changing the painting like a kaleidoscope. Visible speech is poured forth as if from a distance. Visible praise to the glory of God softly sings a beautiful melody. Suddenly, the light is too bright for eyes. The melody swells to full crescendo. The sun shouts joy, wonder and praise to God. Morning by morning God faithfully paints a new one. He is awesome! The faithful sun reminds us that one day Jesus will come. He who testifies to these things says, ‘Yes, I am coming soon’ (revelation 22:20). He will come in exquisite splendor. There is no rival. Not even the most glorious sunrise God ever created. Patiently, or not so patiently, we hang on his words: The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance (2 Peter 3:9). Lord, thank You for Your patience in waiting to come to take Your own to heaven with You. I pray many more people will come to repentance soon.

Dawn was her favorite time of day. Sunrise made no promises. A bright young beginning didn’t necessarily foretell a glorious evening, nor did a dark and livid start mean a stormy afternoon.

Skylight, oh why must night silence your daze? Through twilight a glow from the heavens remains. If I were the angels I’d sing out your name, and promise these eyes shut till you’re mine again. As night comes, I fear you must fallaway, fallaway. Into your dream’s embrace, fallaway, fallaway. Sunrise will find night’s end; shadows aren’t permanent. Night only makes sunlight fallaway, fallaway. So sleep through the stillness the night has devised, and by your choice, without force, just close your eyes. The dark cannot win if its game you refuse, and suddenly night is the darkness you choose.

The thing that would make me happy is to live in Geoffrey Stoner’s world.

When Adolfe Sax patented the first saxophone on June 23, 1846, the Creek Nation was in turmoil. The people had been moved west of the Mississippi River after the Creek Wars which culminated in the Battle of Horseshoe Bend. We were putting our lives back together in new lands where we were promised we would be left alone. The saxophone made it across the big waters and was introduced in brass bands in the South. The music followed rivers into new towns, cities, all the way to our new lands. Not long after, in the early 1900s, my grandmother Naomi Harjo learned to play saxophone. I can feel her now when I play the instrument we both loved and love. The saxophone is so human. Its tendency is to be rowdy, edgy, talk too loud, bump into people, say the wrong words at the wrong time, but then, you take a breath all the way from the center of the earth and blow. All that heartache is forgiven. All that love we humans carry makes a sweet, deep sound and we fly a little.

The smoke was heavy in the frigid air. Bitter in my throat. I leaned against the railing, stared out at the city: crawling traffic, flashing lights, darkness hanging over New York without a promise of sunrise to come. I was reminded of the nights we’d stood on this same balcony, a drink in Massimo’s hand, ice clinking against his teeth. Tonio exhaling long spirals of gray smoke into the neon-tinted night. Rubbing oil out of my palm, smoking one of Tonio’s cigarettes and taking drinks when my cousin offered them. I was reminded of last night when we’d stood in the courtyard outside the ballroom, blood on Massimo’s face and acrid smoke in the air. Ice water dripping from Tonio’s hand. And a shadow in the golden light spilling from the doorway. I missed Lorel, and Massimo, and the people we’d once been. Though maybe we’d always been the people we were now, just buried beneath layers. Regardless, I thought Mamma and Papa wouldn’t recognize the girl standing here now on a dark New York balcony, smoking one last cigarette, blood and oil in the creases of her hands.

She promises herself too much she who enters life with the expectation of a smooth ride. Just as there is sunrise, there must also be sunset.

He'd taught me that each sunrise was a new promise, a new beginning, a new chance at extraordinary.

That postage stamp of a moment has always remained with me as a reminder of the innocent world in which I grew up. Or at least the innocent world in which we chose to live, perhaps to our regret. When I sat under the tree at three in the morning, an old man watching a barge and tug working its way upstream, I knew that I no longer had to reclaim the past, that the past was still with me, inextricably part of my soul and who I was; I could step through a hole in the dimension and be with my father and mother again, and I didn’t have to drink or mourn the dead or live on a cross for my misdeeds; I was set free, and the past and the future and the present were at the ends of my fingertips, filled with promise and goodness, and I didn’t have to submit to time or fate or even mortality. The party is a grand one and infinite in nature and like the music of the spheres thunderous in its presence, and I realized finally that the invitation to it comes with the sunrise and a clear eye and a good heart and the knowledge that we’re already inside eternity and need not fear any longer.

The pursuit of wholehearted living has enjoyed renewed interest in recent years, but we dare not mistake it for a fad; nor do I want to reduce it to the spiritual equivalent of an Instagram influencer's lifestyle brand. To live and love fully, to embrace human vulnerability rather than exploit it, to try to make sense of our place in this fragile yet beautiful world, to seek to understand our role in proclaiming God's love and justice-this has been the work of generations. It's the quest that creates our greatest works of art and our most profound moments of quiet tenderness. it's the promise that calls us to greet every sunrise and surrender to every sunset. It's the best hope for our oldest prayers, both on the days when I believe as well as on the days when I don't.

The woods are so different at night. In the morning, on their runs, even the silences feel promising, even before sunrise; the footsteps of chipmunks, the rustling of roots, all incipient with the day to come. But now, the stars studding the sky and the moon bearing down slanting light, the woods are fuller, darker, stranger.

It was August, Indian summer hot, morning but not morning, a sunrise without any sunrise colors. The sky was gray-dark above and gray-light below, no pink or orange or real color at all--just lightness pushing back darkness through air hot-cold as fever chills.

I might fail Khara. I might disappoint myself and my loyal friends. So much could go wrong, so quickly, on this mission of mine. But I promised myself I would cherish the gift of that sunrise no matter what happened. How the earth can surprise us if we let it!

She was getting ahead of herself. Dreaming again. And she knew all too well what happened when she did that. Disappointment.

Ah, a crimson sunset above the silhouette of the ocean. It blazes with brilliance and arouses all the passion and yearning in the soul of the beholder. Many found themselves awash in its burst of colors while others never minded to stop and appreciate it because they were awash in lesser things. Sunset is always wiser than sunrise because it adds the experience of an entire day to your being. While you may prefer a cloudless blue sky and an easy, pleasant day, don’t forget that setting sun needs cloudy skies to manifest its grandest of all earthly spectacles and mundane days require arduous challenges to experience the true joy of life. it is incredible how at every sunset, the sky is a different shade, with no cloud ever in the same place. Each day is a new masterpiece, a new wonder, a new memory. Every sunset is an opportunity to reset, as it brings the promise of a new dawn.

THE PROPHECIES BEGIN Book One: Into the Wild Book Two: Fire and Ice Book Three: Forest of Secrets Book Four: Rising Storm Book Five: A Dangerous Path Book Six: The Darkest Hour THE NEW PROPHECY Book One: Midnight Book Two: Moonrise Book Three: Dawn Book Four: Starlight Book Five: Twilight Book Six: Sunset POWER OF THREE Book One: The Sight Book Two: Dark River Book Three: Outcast Book Four: Eclipse Book Five: Long Shadows Book Six: Sunrise OMEN OF THE STARS Book One: The Fourth Apprentice Book Two: Fading Echoes Book Three: Night Whispers Book Four: Sign of the Moon Book Five: The Forgotten Warrior Book Six: The Last Hope DAWN OF THE CLANS Book One: The Sun Trail Book Two: Thunder Rising Book Three: The First Battle Book Four: The Blazing Star Book Five: A Forest Divided Warriors Super Edition: Firestar’s Quest Warriors Super Edition: Bluestar’s Prophecy Warriors Super Edition: SkyClan’s Destiny Warriors Super Edition: Crookedstar’s Promise Warriors Super Edition: Yellowfang’s Secret Warriors Super Edition: Tallstar’s Revenge Warriors Super Edition: Bramblestar’s Storm Warriors Field Guide: Secrets of the Clans Warriors: Cats of the Clans Warriors: Code of the Clans Warriors: Battles of the Clans Warriors: Enter the Clans Warriors: The Ultimate Guide Warriors: The Untold Stories Warriors: Tales from the Clans MANGA The Lost Warrior Warrior’s Refuge Warrior’s Return The Rise of Scourge Tigerstar and Sasha #1: Into the Woods Tigerstar and Sasha #2: Escape from the Forest Tigerstar and Sasha #3: Return to the Clans Ravenpaw’s Path #1: Shattered Peace Ravenpaw’s Path #2: A Clan in Need Ravenpaw’s Path #3: The Heart of a Warrior SkyClan and the Stranger #1: The Rescue SkyClan and the Stranger #2: Beyond the Code SkyClan and the Stranger #3: After the Flood NOVELLAS Hollyleaf’s Story Mistystar’s Omen Cloudstar’s Journey Tigerclaw’s

Broken boat! The small boat was anchored, where the lake ended, It stood there over the water and nothing at all pretended, The silently lapping water showed no hurry, Just like the still boat that today had no reason to worry, The boat, the water, everything appeared to be at ease, They had no reason to rush, and nobody to please, Just themselves and their anchored state, That steadfastly cast them into this feeling of never being tired to wait, Wait for the sunrise, wait for the moon rise, wait for the morning, Wait for the boatman, wait for a new wave, wait for the birds to sing, It seemed the boat and the lake could wait forever and for everything, And just like the boat I too waited for someone, that feeling beautiful, that special something, The lake spreads far and wide, And the boat stands anchored between this divide, To wait or to drift at the wind’s will, The prospect is attractive but the boat has a promise to fulfill, Towards the boatman, towards the anchor, towards the lake too, And towards something or maybe someone, nobody knows who, Maybe it is her secret affair, With the shore, with the security it offers her, While she is romancing the shore and it erotically kisses her hull, And an onlooker like me feels she wants to break free from this life so dull, But maybe she does not regard the weight of the anchor to be a boundation, For it holds her close to the erotic shore and it's wet and muddy sensation, As time passes by, the boat begins to rot, The kiss of the shore that enticed her and felt so hot, Was actually fooling her to feel what was not real, By the time the boat realised the kiss of the shore was unreal, The hull of the boat had perforated and crumbled, And as it lay there in this state of uselessness and now humbled, The shore no longer kissed it, Because now a new boat stood anchored there, and the shore was erotically kissing it, The boat has decomposed, and its wood drifts freely in the lake now, And it wanders endlessly to seek that real feeling of love, But in pieces, one here, one there, one somewhere unknown, In pieces trying to find love that it never had actually felt or known, So, whenever I see a broken piece of a boat, I think of you my love, and then with these pieces I and my feelings float, Where? Only every broken piece of the boat can tell, But unlike the boat, I feel our love is real and it is for nobody except us to judge and tell!

Wolff’s ultimately empty promises of a dramatic German surrender that would advance U.S. and British forces far to the east captivated Dulles and his OSS colleagues in Switzerland. Dulles intervened on a half-dozen occasions in an effort to keep the Operation Sunrise negotiations on track, even after the joint U.S.-British military command in Italy ordered him to desist.

FALLING FROM THE NIGHT SKY (a song) I was a star falling from the night sky I needed you to catch me I was a rainbow lifting from a dark cloud I needed you to see me You keep your eyes to the ground Walk that line she had to you. That path of patient expectation. Keeps you true to her undoing. My heart wore flowers and a red dress. The first time we kissed You smelled of happiness and moonlight We drove the night to tenderness. When you’re here we are the sun and the moon. In the land where promises come true. When you’re here, we share imagination No explanations. It’s just me, and you. You keep your eyes to the ground Walk that line she had to you. That path of patient expectation. Keeps you true to her undoing. I am a star falling from the night sky I need you to catch me I am a rainbow lifting from a dark cloud I need you to see me

The days of feeling like you were tossing a life raft into a chasm when you lost your valuable bitcoins are long gone. A light of hope amid the dark waters of Bitcoin recovery emerges in the form of MUYERN TRUST HACKER. My tale attests to their skill in finding misplaced bitcoins and is one of hopelessness turned delightfully virtual vindication. It began with a rookie mistake. A fresh-faced investor, I succumbed to the siren song of a flashy exchange, lured by promises of astronomical returns. Little did I know, the platform was a meticulously crafted mirage, designed to fleece unsuspecting victims like myself. In a blink, my entire Bitcoin portfolio vanished, leaving a gnawing emptiness and a heart heavy with regret. Days bled into weeks, each sunrise a stark reminder of my folly. I scoured the internet, desperately clutching at straws, only to be met with a chorus of despairing voices and predatory "recovery" scams. Then, amidst the digital wasteland, I stumbled upon MUYERN TRUST HACKER. Their website, a beacon of professionalism in the chaos, promised a glimmer of hope. Hesitantly, I contacted their support team. What followed was a series of in-depth consultations, each one a meticulous excavation of my digital footprints. The MUYERN TRUST HACKER team, a symphony of expertise and empathy, treated my case seriously. They listened patiently to my tale, dissected the fraudulent exchange's tactics, and formulated a recovery plan that felt both audacious and meticulously crafted. Days turned into weeks, each email updating a fluttering pulse of anticipation. Then, one glorious morning, it arrived. A simple email, devoid of fanfare, yet pregnant with the weight of a thousand suns: "Your bitcoins have been recovered. Tears welled up as I logged into my wallet. The numbers, once mockingly absent, now shimmered with the brilliance of a thousand reclaimed dreams. The impossible had been achieved. MUYERN TRUST HACKER had not only retrieved my stolen bitcoins, but they had also restored my faith in the very fabric of the cryptocurrency world. My experience is not singular. The unflinching dedication of the MUYERN TRUST HACKER team to rectifying the injustices of the digital frontier is demonstrated by their tireless efforts. They are digital Sherpas crossing the perilous terrain of lost bitcoins; they are more than just recovery experts. They are custodians of trust. ( Mail them at: muyerntrusted@mail-me.com ) ( Telegram for fast communication (@)muyerntrusthacker )

The ultimate retirement is one in which you discover who you truly are and you love that person. That, my friends, is what genuine happiness is about. Clearly, KT and I are very fortunate to be able to afford this beautiful way of life, but the lesson here is not about how wonderful our experience is. It has everything to do with the promise that awaits you in retirement. And the lesson is this: You are not defined by your work, no matter what it is or was. You are defined by who you are, how you live, and the love and respect you show to yourself and to others. There really is life after work. The ultimate retirement is one in which you wake up and greet the sunrise each day with joy. In the ultimate retirement, you find meaning in every single day. If you make the time to look inside yourself, to marvel at the wonderment of life, you will be amazed at what you discover.

Tender liike a promise. Tender like a sunrise. Tender like your key in the front door at midnight, letting you in, welcoming you home.

I’ve been asking myself a question for a while–what’s more beautiful, the sunset or the sunrise? The sunset promises hope of a soon approaching light, while the sunlight perseveres through darkness to illuminate the sky. And so, I realize, both are incomparable, for one beautiful end leads to another mesmerizing start.

For every sunset in one part of the world There’s a sunrise in the other For every dark night in a new city Someone wakes up to a promising morning What is this life if not shifting of seasons An emperor’s mount, and a ruler’s decline How foolish is man to weep over his misfortune With each descent, the waves are meant to rise.

Sunsets and sunrises are there to remind you of time passed and time to come, a solid promise of life and how the world keeps turning...A life shared together and hold strong to embrace a new day

Mrs Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learnt a new word (‘Shan’t!’). Mr Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living-room in time to catch the last report on the evening news: ‘And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.’ The news reader allowed himself a grin. ‘Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?’ ‘Well, Ted,’ said the weatherman, ‘I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.’ Mr Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters … Mrs Dursley came into the living-room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. ‘Er – Petunia, dear – you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?’ As he had expected, Mrs Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t have a sister. ‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘Why?’ ‘Funny stuff on the news,’ Mr Dursley mumbled. ‘Owls … shooting stars … and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today …’ ‘So?’ snapped Mrs Dursley.

That night, Karna was filled with disturbing thoughts about his past –  about Parashurama’s curse, Mother Kunti’s disclosure to him of his parentage, about Indra taking away his Kavach and Kundal, about the loss of his celestial weapons. The next morning, Karna knew it was the last sunrise he had seen. He promised Duryodhan that he would either slay Arjuna or be slain himself, and went out to meet Arjuna in his final battle.

You’re going to pay for this, Dodger!” The mischievous creature thought everything in the world was for his own amusement. No basket or container could go without being overturned or investigated, no stocking or comb or handkerchief could be left alone. Dodger stole personal items and left them in heaps beneath chairs and sofas, and he took naps in drawers of clean clothes, and worst of all, he was so entertaining in his naughtiness that the entire Hathaway family was inclined to overlook his behavior. Whenever Poppy objected to the ferret’s outrageous antics, Beatrix was always apologetic and promised that Dodger would never do it again, and she seemed genuinely surprised when Dodger didn’t heed her earnest lectures.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news: “And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?” “Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.” Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters . . . Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er — Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?” As

In this life, my body has become a withered twig, where once I stood tall. I distantly remember the lush earth and beech forests of New England --- outside my bedroom window as a child --- growing in kingdoms. My parents near me. In this life, I bubble like an old man, when once I could fly over doubts and contradictions. In this life, my memories are the smoke I choke on, burning my eyes. In this life, I remember hungers that will never return. When I was once a lover with the bluest eyes she had ever seen --- deeper than Paul Newman's, darker than Frank Sinatra's. This life! This life is coming to an end without any explanation or apology, and where every sense of my soul or ray of light through a cloud promises to be my end. This life was an abrupt and tragic dream that seized me during the wee hours of a Saturday morning as the sunrise reflected off the mirror above her vanity table, leaving me speechless just as the world faded to white.

What do you think you’re doing?” Win whispered to Merripen furiously, as he sent off yet another abashed gentleman. “I wanted to dance with him! I had promised him I would!” “You’re not going to dance with scum like him,” Merripen muttered. Win shook her head in bewilderment. “He’s a viscount from a respected family. What could you possibly object to?” “He’s a friend of Leo’s. That’s reason enough.” Win glared up at Merripen. She struggled to retain a grasp on her composure. She had always found it so easy to conceal her emotions beneath a serene facade, but lately she was finding that more and more difficult. All her feelings were lurking too close to the surface. “If you are trying to ruin my evening,” she told him, “you’re doing a splendid job of it. I want to dance, and you’re scaring away everyone who approaches me. Leave me alone.” She turned her back to him, and sighed with relief as Julian Harrow came to them. “Miss Hathaway,” he said, “will you do me the honor—” “Yes,” she said before he could even finish the sentence. Taking his arm, she let him lead her into the mass of swirling, waltzing couples. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Merripen staring after her, and she sent him a threatening look. He returned it with a scowl.

You’ve changed everything,” he whispers, his voice barely more than a sigh. “Before you, my days were nothing but a sequence of shallow breaths and half-lived moments waiting for revenge. My father’s ghost haunted me at every turn, and I dreamt about vengeance and retaliation. But then you opened up to me, and it was like dawn breaking over the darkest night. You scattered the shadows with your laughter and banished the cold with the warmth of your smile. With you, I found something that I never set out to find. You showed me that my father’s love didn’t matter when I had real love—love that didn’t care about winning or revenge, but love that cared about giving, sacrificing, and cherishing. I don’t need his connections. The anger, the revenge, the hatred, all the conflicting emotions I felt about him—none of it matters anymore because I have you. You are my sunrise and sunset. You are my today and all of my tomorrows. If you can forgive me for what I did, I promise to spend every day for the rest of my life making it up to you.