Quotes
Quotes about Day
In default of inexhaustible happiness, eternal suffering would at least give us a destiny. But we do not even have that consolation, and our worst agonies come to an end one day.
Our time is fixed, and all our days are number'd; How long, how short, we know not:--this we know, Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission.
Fool! I mean not That poor-souled piece of heroism, self-slaughter; Oh no! the miserablest day we live There's many a better thing to do than die!
In lang, lang days o' simmer, When the clear and cloudless sky Refuses ae weep drap o' rain To Nature parched and dry, The genial night, wi' balmy breath, Gars verdue, spring anew, An' ilka blade o' grass Keps its ain drap o' dew.
Oh, father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will, "Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?"
All labours draw hame at even, And can to others say, "Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, Whilk sent this summer day."
O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers! O for an iceberg or two at control! O for a vale that at midday the dew cumbers! O for a pleasure trip up to the pole!
O summer day beside the joyous sea! O summer day so wonderful and white, So full of gladness and so full of pain! Forever and forever shalt thou be To some the gravestone of a dead delight, To some the landmark of a new domain.
But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove; Ye gods! and is there no relief for love?
Before green apples blush, Before green nuts embrown, Why, one day in the country Is worth a month in town.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So ling lives this, and this gives life to thee.
High in his chariot glow'd the lamp of day.
Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise; But waking flow'rs, At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.
Amende to-day and slack not, Deythe cometh and warneth not, Tyme passeth and speketh not.
Give God thy heart, thy service, and thy gold; The day wears on, and time is waxing old. - Unattributed Author,
In the day, do the day's work.
I go away and come again each day, But thou shalt go away and ne'er return.
I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.
"Horas non numero nisi serenas." There stands in the garden of old St. Mark A sun dial quaint and gray. It takes no heed of the hours which in dark Pass o'er it day by day. It has stood for ages amid the flowers In that land of sky and song. "I number none but the cloudless hours," Its motto the live day long.
Thou breathing dial! since thy day began The present hour was ever mark'd with shade.
O God! methinks it were a happy life To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes, how they run-- How many makes the hour full complete, How many hours brings about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live; When this is known, then to divide the times-- So many hours must I tend my flock, So many hours must I take my rest, So many hours must I contemplate, So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young, So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean, So many months ere I shall shear the fleece. So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Passed over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this!
Hours fly, Flowers die. New days, New ways, Pass by. Love stays.
The death-bed of a day, how beautiful!
The sacred lamp of day Now dipt in western clouds his parting day.
After a day of cloud and wind and rain Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, And touching all the darksome woods with light, Smiles on the fields until they laugh and sing, Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring, Drops down into the night.
