Quotes
Quotes about Art
Be not rash with thy mouth, and let not thine heart be hasty to utter any thing before God; for God is in heaven, and thou upon earth: therefore let thy words be few.
The words of his mouth were smoother than butter, but war was in his heart: his words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords.
A very great part of the mischiefs that vex this world arises from words.
One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter.
In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.
Hasten slowly, and without losing heart, put your work twenty times upon the anvil. [Fr., Hatez-vous lentement; et, sans perdre courage, Vingt fois sur le metier remettez votre ouvrage.]
The best verse hasn't been rhymed yet, The best house hasn't been planned, The highest peak hasn't been climbed yet, The mightiest rivers aren't spanned; Don't worry and fret, faint-hearted, The chances have just begun For the best jobs haven't been started, The best work hasn't been done.
With hand on the spade and heart in the sky Dress the ground and till it; Turn in the little seed, brown and dry, Turn out the golden millet. Work, and your house shall be duly fed: Work, and rest shall be won; I hold that a man had better be dead Than alive when his work is done.
Let us take to our hearts a lesson-- No lesson could braver be-- From the ways of the tapestry weavers On the other side of the sea.
The Lord had a job for me, but I had so much to do, I said, "You get somebody else--or wait till I get through." I don't know how the Lord came out, but He seemed to get along: But I felt kinda sneakin' like, 'cause I know'd I done Him wrong. One day I needed the Lord--Needed Him myself--needed Him right away, And He never answered me at all, but I could hear Him say Down in my accusin' heart, "Nigger, I'se got too much to do, You get somebody else or wait till I get through."
"Men work together," I told him from the heart, "Whether they work together or apart."
When Darby saw the setting sun He swung his scythe, and home he run, Sat down, drank off his quart and said, "My work is done, I'll go to bed." "My work is done!" retorted Joan, "My work is done! Your constant tone, But hapless woman ne'er can say 'My work is done' till judgment day."
I like work; it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours. I love to keep it by me: the idea of getting rid of it nearly breaks my heart.
And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessed--they know the angels are on their side: They know in them is the Grace confessed, and for them are the Mercies multiplied; They sit at the Feet, they hear the Word, they see how truly the Promise runs; They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and--the Lord He lays it on Martha's sons!
I am nothing and to nothing tend, On earth I nothing have and nothing claim, Man's noblest works must have one common end, And nothing crown the tablet of his name.
Another lean unwashed artificer Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur's death.
Why, universal plodding poisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tires The sinewy vigor of the traveller.
How many a rustic Milton has passed by, Stifling the speechless longings of his heart, In unremitting drudgery and care! How many a vulgar Cato has compelled His energies, no longer tameless then, To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail!
Heaven is blessed with perfect rest but the blessing of earth is toil.
Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born With nowhere yet to rest my head, Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.
Earth took her shining station as a star, In Heaven's dark hall, high up the crowd of worlds.
God is the author, men are only the players. These grand pieces which are played upon earth have been composed in heaven. [Fr., Dieu est le poete, les hommes ne sont que les acteurs. Ces grandes pieces qui se jouent sur la terre ont ete composees dans le ciel.]
The earth only has so much bounty to offer and inventing ever larger and more notional prices for that bounty does not change its real value.
It was the human spirit itself that failed at Paris. It is no use passing judgments and making scapegoats of this or that individual statesman or group of statesmen. Idealists make a great mistake in not facing the real facts sincerely and resolutely. They believe in the power of the spirit, in the goodness which is at the heart of things, in the triumph which is in store for the great moral ideals of the race. But this great faith only too often leads to an optimism which is sadly and fatally at variance with actual results. It is the realist and not the idealist who is generally justified by events. We forget that the human spirit, the spirit of goodness and truth in the world, is still only an infant crying in the night, and that the struggle with darkness is as yet mostly an unequal struggle. . . . Paris proved this terrible truth once more. It was not Wilson who failed there, but humanity itself. It was not the statesmen that failed, so much as the spirit of the peoples behind them.
This art of resting the mind and the power of dismissing from it all care and worry is probably one of the secrets of energy in our great men.
