Upon A Frosted Star Quotes

It was winter, and a night of bitter cold. The snow lay thick upon the ground, and upon the branches of the trees: the frost kept snapping the little twigs on either side of them, as they passed: and when they came to the Mountain-Torrent she was hanging motionless in air, for the Ice-King had kissed her.

There was nothing left for me to do, but go. Though the things of the world were strong with me still. Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry; a friendly match-share beneath some collision-titled streetlight; a frozen clock, a bird visited within its high tower; cold water from a tin jug; towering off one’s clinging shirt post-June rain. Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth. Someone’s kind wishes for you; someone remembering to write; someone noticing that you are not at all at ease. A bloody ross death-red on a platter; a headgetop under-hand as you flee late to some chalk-and-woodfire-smelling schoolhouse. Geese above, clover below, the sound of one’s own breath when winded. The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars; the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes; writing one’s beloved’s name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger. Tying a shoe; tying a knot on a package; a mouth on yours; a hand on yours; the ending of the day; the beginning of the day; the feeling that there will always be a day ahead. Goodbye, I must now say goodbye to all of it. Loon-call in the dark; calf-cramp in the spring; neck-rub in the parlour; milk-sip at end of day. Some brandy-legged dog proudly back-ploughs the grass to cover its modest shit; a cloud-mass down-valley breaks apart over the course of a brandy-deepened hour; louvered blinds yield dusty beneath your dragging finger, and it is nearly noon and you must decide; you have seen what you have seen, and it has wounded you, and it seems you have only one choice left. Blood-stained porcelain bowl wobbles face down on wood floor; orange peel not at all stirred by disbelieving last breath there among that fine summer dust-layer, fatal knife set down in pass-panic on familiar wobbly banister, later dropped (thrown) by Mother (dear Mother) (heartsick) into the slow-flowing, chocolate-brown Potomac. None of it was real; nothing was real. Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear. These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and in this way, brought them forth. And now we must lose them. I send this out to you, dear friends, before I go, in this instantaneous thought-burst, from a place where time slows and then stops and we may live forever in a single instant. Goodbye goodbye good-

Perfection" Every oak will lose a leaf to the wind. Every star-thistle has a thorn. Every flower has a blemish. Every wave washes back upon itself. Every ocean embraces a storm. Every raindrop falls with precision. Every slithering snail leaves its silver trail. Every butterfly flies until its wings are torn. Every tree-frog is obligated to sing. Every sound has an echo in the canyon. Every pine drops its needles to the forest floor. Creation's whispered breath at dusk comes with a frost and leaves within dawn's faint mist, for all of existence remains perfect, adorned, with a dead sparrow on the ground. (Poem titled : 'Perfection' by R.H.Peat)

In the dusk of that evening Jude walked away from his old aunt's as if to go home. But as soon as he reached the open down he struck out upon it till he came to a large round pond. The frost continued, though it was not particularly sharp, and the larger stars overhead came out slow and flickering, Jude put one foot on the edge of the ice, and then the other: it cracked under his weight; but this did not deter him. He ploughed his way inward to the centre, the ice making sharp noises as he went. When just about the middle he looked around him and gave a jump. The cracking repeated itself; but he did not go down. He jumped again, but the cracking had ceased. Jude went back to the edge, and stepped upon the ground. It was curious, he thought. What was he reserved for? He supposed he was not a sufficiently dignified person for suicide. Peaceful death abhorred him as a subject, and would not take him. What could he do of a lower kind than self-extermination; what was there less noble, more in keeping with his present degraded position? He could get drunk.

And there was nothing left for me to do, but go. Though the things of the world were strong with me still. Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry; a friendly match-share beneath some collision-tilted streetlight; a frozen clock, bird-visited within its high tower; cold water from a tin jug; toweling off one’s clinging shirt post–June rain. Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth. Someone’s kind wishes for you; someone remembering to write; someone noticing that you are not at all at ease. A bloody roast death-red on a platter; a hedgetop under-hand as you flee late to some chalk-and-woodfire-smelling schoolhouse. Geese above, clover below, the sound of one’s own breath when winded. The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars; the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes; writing one’s beloved’s name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger. Tying a shoe; tying a knot on a package; a mouth on yours; a hand on yours; the ending of the day; the beginning of the day; the feeling that there will always be a day ahead.

So many stars. Dancing apart and crowding together. Large streaks of white; smears of frost upon a dark wood. Glowing, glimmering like they're alive.

Grief is like a well: you can never truly leave it but the walls grow wider and wider until one day you look up and realise that you can see the sky again.

I have never needed a man to save me and I do not intend to start now.

Stronger Than Time Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it, And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade; Since it was given to me to hear on happy while, The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile, Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes; Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam, A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always, Since I have felt the fall, upon my lifetime's stream, Of one rose petal plucked from the roses of your days; I now am bold to say to the swift changing hours, Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old, Fleet to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers, One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold. Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet; My heart has far more fire than you can frost to chill, My soul more love than you can make my soul forget

To fill the days up of his dateless year Flame from Queen Helen to Queen Guenevere? For first of all the sphery signs whereby Love severs light from darkness, and most high, In the white front of January there glows The rose-red sign of Helen like a rose: And gold-eyed as the shore-flower shelterless Whereon the sharp-breathed sea blows bitterness, A storm-star that the seafarers of love Strain their wind-wearied eyes for glimpses of, Shoots keen through February's grey frost and damp The lamplike star of Hero for a lamp; The star that Marlowe sang into our skies With mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes; And in clear March across the rough blue sea The signal sapphire of Alcyone Makes bright the blown bross of the wind-foot year; And shining like a sunbeam-smitten tear Full ere it fall, the fair next sign in sight Burns opal-wise with April-coloured light When air is quick with song and rain and flame, My birth-month star that in love's heaven hath name Iseult, a light of blossom and beam and shower, My singing sign that makes the song-tree flower; Next like a pale and burning pearl beyond The rose-white sphere of flower-named Rosamond Signs the sweet head of Maytime; and for June Flares like an angered and storm-reddening moon Her signal sphere, whose Carthaginian pyre Shadowed her traitor's flying sail with fire; Next, glittering as the wine-bright jacinth-stone, A star south-risen that first to music shone, The keen girl-star of golden Juliet bears Light northward to the month whose forehead wears Her name for flower upon it, and his trees Mix their deep English song with Veronese; And like an awful sovereign chrysolite Burning, the supreme fire that blinds the night, The hot gold head of Venus kissed by Mars, A sun-flower among small sphered flowers of stars, The light of Cleopatra fills and burns The hollow of heaven whence ardent August yearns; And fixed and shining as the sister-shed Sweet tears for Phaethon disorbed and dead, The pale bright autumn's amber-coloured sphere, That through September sees the saddening year As love sees change through sorrow, hath to name Francesca's; and the star that watches flame The embers of the harvest overgone Is Thisbe's, slain of love in Babylon, Set in the golden girdle of sweet signs A blood-bright ruby; last save one light shines An eastern wonder of sphery chrysopras, The star that made men mad, Angelica's; And latest named and lordliest, with a sound Of swords and harps in heaven that ring it round, Last love-light and last love-song of the year's, Gleams like a glorious emerald Guenevere's.

I have no need for money or a manor; I would be perfectly content living in a hut so long as I had you by my side. You know that I love you a thousand times more than any reason you could give for why we ought not be together. There is no other possible future for me than you. I would sooner die than stop loving you,' he growled. They stared at each other, their chests rising and falling in unison. 'Then you had better make sure you find Rothbart because I'm not letting you go after a speech like that.

I suppose you think I should be thanking you, for stepping up to assist in reviving me.' 'I have no illusions that the day you thank me for anything, Rhysand, is the day the burning fires of hell go cold.' 'Poetic.' A low snarl. Too easy. It was far too easy to bait him, rile him. And though I reminded myself of the wall, of the peace we needed, I said, 'You saved my mate's life on several occasions. I will always be thankful for that.' I knew the words found their mark. My mate. Low. It was a low blow. I had everything- everything I'd wished for, dreamed of, begged the stars to grant me. He had nothing. Had been given everything and squandered it. He didn't deserve my pity, my sympathy. No, Tamlin deserved what he'd brought upon himself, this husk of a life. He deserved every empty room, every snarl of thorns, every meal he had to hunt for himself.

And there was nothing left for me to do, but go. Though the things of the world were strong with me still. Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry; a friendly match-share beneath some collision-tilted streetlight; a frozen clock, bird-visited within its high tower; cold water from a tin jug; toweling off one's clinging shirt post-June rain. Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth. Someone's kind wishes for you; someone remembering to write; someone noticing that you are not at all at ease/ A bloody roast death-red on a platter; a hedgetop under-hand as you flee late to some chalk-and-woodfire-smelling schoolhouse. Geese above, clover below, the sound of one's own breath when winded. The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars; the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes; writing one's beloved's name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger. Tying a shoe; tying a knot on a package; a mouth on yours; a hand on yours; the ending of the day; the beginning of the day; the feeling that there will always be a day ahead.

He told how the light moved, he told of shadows, he told how the air was white and bright and pale; he told how for a little while Earth began to grow like Elfland, with a kinder light and the beginning of colours, and then just as one thought of home the light would blink away and the colours be gone. He told of stars. He told of cows and goats and the moon, three horned creatures that he found curious. He had found more wonder in Earth than we remember, though we also saw these things once for the first time; and out of the wonder he felt at the ways of the fields we know, he made many a tale that held the inquisitive trolls and gripped them silent upon the floor of the forest, as though they were indeed a fall of brown leaves in October that a frost had suddenly bound. They heard of chimneys and carts for the first time: with a thrill they heard of windmills. They listened spell-bound to the ways of men; and every now and then, as when he told of hats, there ran through the forest a wave of little yelps of laughter. Then he said that they should see hats and spades and dog-kennels, and look through casements and get to know the windmill; and a curiosity arose in the forest amongst that brown mass of trolls, for their race is profoundly inquisitive.

Gracie's first thought was that it was unfair a man should have such a sinfully beautiful mouth. Her next was that it was made for seduction and unspeakable delights. And her third was that it was made for despair—for despair was what she could not help but feel as she stared at this young man, who seemed a strange and uncanny reflection of herself. Not only a more perfect specimen of manhood than she could ever pretend to be in her feigned garb, but a man who reflected her very soul back to her without even seeming to realize it, more herself than she was, yet in the way that fire complimented frost, or the ocean reflected the stars.

Low. It was a low blow. I had everything - everything I’d wished for, dreamed of, begged the stars to grant me. He had nothing. Had been given everything and squandered it. He didn’t deserve my pity, my sympathy. No, Tamlin deserved what he’d brought upon himself, this husk of life. He deserved every empty room, every snarl of thorns, every meal he had to hunt for himself.

The tower of cookies was high enough to touch the lanterns Mrs. Belmagio and Mrs. Vaci brought in a five-tiered chocolate cake, meticulously decorated with plump crimson cherries and hazelnut frosting. Each layer was shaped like a scalloped bowl, meant to resemble the fountain in Pariva's central square, and topped with a generous sprinkling of bluebell petals. But what made Chiara tear up were the cards pressed carefully into the cake, each on a sliced piece of cork---messages from every friend, neighbor, child, and elder she had ever known. We'll miss you. May you spread your light and make all of Esperia bright.

He had been sleepwalking through his own life, a life that was a canvas devoid of colour, and at last, he had awoken to a dazzling reality.

I was a woman strung together with glitter and wishes. A midnight apparition cast in the coldest winters. I would not be here tomorrow. But tonight I would drink champagne until my veins ran in golden, bubbling streams. I would dance until the ice in my heart melted. Kiss until my lips bruised. And I would live until it hurt.

I find the world changed when it snows. Sometimes I wonder if it's the closest thing to magic I shall ever experience.

The funny thing is, the more people I surround myself with, the lonelier I feel. I could be dancing in a sea of people and still be completely alone. You may be the very first person at one of these parties to see me.

I am far too advanced in years to cast off my clothes and dance in a fountain,' Vivian said. 'My body is a temple that my lovers may only worship at my candlelight.

I will be here. Each and every day it snows. I am yours.' 'I want to see the bluebells carpet the woods, bathe in sunlight and swim in the lake when it's warm and golden with summer, and dance through fields of wildflowers with you.' Her eyes darkened. 'But that will never happen. It is an impossible dream. And I shall not have you condemned to a life of waiting for snowfall.

Will you miss me when I've left?' I tried instead. 'Of course, but such is life. We are all birds in a wide, wide sky. Oftentimes we might fly alongside another but we must each soar on our own current.

...love is always enough. There is no greater force in this world and nothing it cannot do.

You know, birds always find their way home, no matter the distance. Perhaps you will, too.

I would gladly wait a hundred months for a single day like this,' he told her.

I would marry you a thousand times over, Odette Lakely. Until the moon falls from the sky and the stars no longer glitter.

You want to know how I see you?' Forster's voice turned husky. Detta's mouth was swollen from grazing his stubble and he couldn't stop looking at it, at her. 'When we are together, all I can think of is you, and when sleep comes, I dream of you.' Detta had stilled yet he continued, unable to stop. 'And when we're apart, I ache for you. Missing you is a physical pain that I cannot rid myself of and nor would I ever choose to because there is no sweeter pain than that which reminds me of you. You are my everything.

I love you, Forster; whatever the future may hold for us, I want us to face it together,' she whispered. 'I will never leave you.' His heart swelled. 'It's you, Detta. For me, it's always been you.

...all I want, all I could ever need, is you.

A life was so fragile, spun from magic impossible to understand...

No,' he told her fiercely, tilting her chin up and looking deep into her ocean eyes. 'You deserve more. But I shall never stop trying to give you everything. For you, I would cut the stars from the sky.

...I do not care for any future that doesn't include you. You, Detta, are my everything and I plan on loving you for a very very long time to come.

Stay with me, Detta,' he told her through his tears. 'Please don't leave me, I can't bear a world without you in it; you're the love of my life and nothing makes sense without you. Stay with me. Just stay,' ...

For their was no finer family than the one you had chosen yourself.

Life is made up of a thousand moments, and if you do not mark them, you run the risk of losing them altogether.

...magic does not belong solely to the young.

It is the snow,' Detta said simply. 'I am only human in the snow. When it melts away, so too do I, for then I am cursed to be a swan.

Why, it can never be too cold for a picnic. Besides which, we have one every year. It's tradition. And you must never break a tradition,' she said solemnly. 'I firmly believe that old ones are to be cherished and new ones cultivated as often as one feels inclined...

Yet no matter how great I shone, I was the glitter of a single star amid a galaxy of constellations.

After all, there's nothing more dangerous than love.' She looked up, her breath catching. 'You might find yourself losing your wits entirely. Of worse, your heart.

After all, there's nothing more dangerous than love.' She looked up, her breath catching. 'You might find yourself losing your wits entirely. Or worse, your heart.

POEMS “Song of the Open Road”—Walt Whitman “The Tyger”—William Blake “I Thought of You”—Sara Teasdale “Sonnet 140”—William Shakespeare “A Clear Midnight”—Walt Whitman “Something Left Undone”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “A Prayer for My Daughter”—William Butler Yeats “My Little March Girl”—Paul Laurence Dunbar “The Mountain Sat Upon the Plain”—Emily Dickinson “The Song of Wandering Aengus”—William Butler Yeats “Jabberwocky”—Lewis Carroll “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”—Robert Frost “Continent’s End”—Robinson Jeffers “Forgiveness”—George MacDonald “O Me! O Life!”—Walt Whitman “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time”—Robert Herrick “In Memoriam A.H.H.”—Alfred Lord Tennyson “i like my body when it is with your”—E. E. Cummings “A Psalm of Life”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”—William Butler Yeats “Three Marching Songs”—William Butler Yeats “Song of Myself”—Walt Whitman “in the rain”—E. E. Cummings “When All Is Done”—Paul Laurence Dunbar “The Wanderings of Oisin”—William Butler Yeats “The Cloud-Islands”—Clark Ashton Smith “love is more thicker than forget”—E. E. Cummings “Hymn to the North Star”—William Cullen Bryant “Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun”—Walt Whitman “The Young Man’s Song”—William Butler Yeats “If”—Rudyard Kipling “Character of the Happy Warrior”—William Wordsworth

In the middle of the table, against the woven cloths upon the wall, there was a chair under a canopy, and there sat a lady fair to look upon, and so like was she in form of womanhood to Elrond that Frodo guessed that she was one of his close kindred. Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost; her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night; yet queenly she looked, and thought and knowledge were in her glance, as of one who has known many things that the years bring.

WHEN on the Magpies' Bridge I see The Hoar-frost King has cast His sparkling mantle, well I know The night is nearly past, Daylight approaches fast. The author of this verse was Governor of the Province of Koshu, and Viceroy of the more or less uncivilized northern and eastern parts of Japan; he died A.D. 785. There was a bridge or passageway in the Imperial Palace at Kyoto called the Magpies' Bridge, but there is also an allusion here to the old legend about the Weaver and Herdsman. It is said, that the Weaver (the star Vega) was a maiden, who dwelt on one side of the River of the Milky Way, and who was employed in making clothes for the Gods. But one day the Sun took pity upon her, and gave her in marriage to the Herdboy (the star Aquila), who lived on the other side of the river. But as the result of this was that the supply of clothes fell short, she was only permitted to visit her husband once a year, viz. on the seventh night of the seventh month; and on this night, it is said, the magpies in a dense flock form a bridge for her across the river. The hoar frost forms just before day breaks. The illustration shows the Herdboy crossing on the Bridge of Magpies to his bride. A Hundred Verses from Old Japan (The Hyakunin-isshu), tr. by William N. Porter, [1909],