Quotes
Quotes about Sleep
That which the dream shows is the shadow of such wisdom as exists in man, even if during his waking state he may know nothing about it... We do not know it because we are fooling away our time with outward and perishing things, and are asleep in regard to that which is real within ourselves.
To believe in one's dreams is to spend all of one's life asleep.
Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.
We all dream; we do not understand our dreams, yet we act as if nothing strange goes on in our sleep minds, strange at least by comparison with the logical, purposeful doings of our minds when we are awake.
Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.
I am accustomed to sleep and in my dreams to imagine the same things that lunatics imagine when awake.
That which the dream shows is the shadow of such wisdom as exists in man, even if during his waking state he may know nothing about it... We do not know it because we are fooling away our time with outward and perishing things, and are asleep in regard to that which is real within ourself.
The birds chaunt melody on every bush, The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun, The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind, And make a checkered shadow on the ground; Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit, And whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds, Replying shrilly to the well-tuned horns, As if a double hunt were heard at once, Let us sit down and mark their yellowing noise; And after conflict such as was supposed The wand'ring prince and Dido once enjoyed, When with a happy storm they were surprised, And curtained with a counsel-keeping cave, We may, each wreathed in the other's arms, Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber, Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds Be unto us as is a nurse's song Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep.
Never sleeping, still awake, Pleasing most when most I speak; The delight of old and young, Though I speak without a tongue. Nought but one thing can confound me, Many voices joining round me, Then I fret, and rave, and gabble, Like the labourers of Babel.
Violent can be sound and light in waking us from sleep of night. Gently comes the dawn's twilight Each step taken oh so slight.
Sleep, riches, and health, to be truly enjoyed, must be interrupted.
This Mirabeau's work, then is done. He sleeps with the primeval giants. He has gone over to the majority: "Abiit ad plures."
Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come was there Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, When childish thoughts, like flowers would drift away.
Let fancy still in my sense in Lethe steep; If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.
How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish overcareful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care. Their bones with industry. For this they have engrossed and piled up The cankered heaps of strange-achieved gold; For this they have been thoughtful to invest Their sons with arts and martial exercises.
There are two types of people in this world, good and bad. The good sleep better, but the bad seem to enjoy the waking hours much more.
If hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep, The sky if no longer dark tempests deform; When our perils are past shall our gratitude sleep? No! Here's to the pilot that weather'd the storm!
I would rather sleep in the southern corner of a little country churchyard, than in the tombs of the Capulets.
The solitary, silent, solemn scene, Where Caesars, heroes, peasants, hermits lie, Blended in dust together; where the slave Rests from his labors; where th' insulting proud Resigns his powers; the miser drops his hoard: Where human folly sleeps.
Jock, when he hae naething else to do, ye may be aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing, Jock, when ye're sleeping.
The little wind that hardly shook The silver of the sleeping brook Blew the gold hair about her eyes,-- A mystery of mysteries. So he must often pause, and stoop, An all the wanton ringlets loop Behind her dainty ear--emprise Of slow event and many sighs.
Never hurry. Take plenty of exercise. Always be cheerful. Take all the sleep you need. You may expect to be well.
The heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering; And then, to go to sleep; And then, if it should be The will of its Inquisitor, The liberty to die.
A light supper, a good night's sleep, and a fine morning have often made a hero of the same man who by indigestion, a restless night, and a rainy morning, would have proved a coward.
