R.H.Dickinson Quotes

Truth - is as old as God-.

Beauty crowds me till I die. Beauty, mercy have on me! Yet if I expire to-day Let it be in sight of thee!

Nods from the Gilded pointers - Nods from the Seconds slim - Decades of Arrogance between The Dial life - And Him -

a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.

Forever is made up of nows.

I do not feel I could give up all for Christ, were I called to die.

'Arcturus' is his other name- I'd rather call him 'Star.' It's very mean of Science To go and interfere!

Love can do all but raise the Dead.

That no Flake of [snow] fall on you or them - is a wish that would be a Prayer, were Emily not a Pagan.

Noon - is the Hinge of Day-.

Forever is comprised of nows.

If Aims impel these Astral Ones The ones allowed to know Know that which makes them as forgot As Dawn forgets them now

I know some lonely houses off the road A robber'd like the look of,-- Wooden barred, And windows hanging low

Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your [broken] Foot were intuitive - but I am but a Pagan.

I have to make sure I exercise and that the ingredients that go into my body are completely organic.

I'm aiming to become the white Oprah.

Hey, I fool the camera. I'm a liar, a magician.

I borrow bits from everyone.

My first job was for a blue jean company as a sitting model. I posed for 15 minutes and made $50. It was 1976.

I hike and make sure everything I eat is organic.

Back in the day I was doing runway, editorial, advertising, spokesmodeling, and public appearances. Those are five different categories.

Everyone steals from something or someone.

Phil Spector is probably a better date than Roman Polanski.

Celebrity is hawking make-up, cars, everything; it's shifted.

I find the light and work it, work it, work it.

I turn the good parts up and the bad parts down

What makes that record special is something that is gone from music today - it's called a rhythm section.

I haven't seen a lot of young producers who work the floor in a traditional way.

There are other things that contribute to health besides a balanced diet. There are fresh air and sunlight and lack of nervous tension.

To lose what we never owned might seem an eccentric Bereavement but Presumption has its Affliction as actually as Claim --

Tell all the Truth, but tell it slant/Success in Circuit lies...

A charm invests a faceImperfectly beheld, —The lady dare not lift her veilFor fear it be dispelled.But peers beyond her mesh, And wishes, and denies, —Lest interview annul a wantThat image satisfies.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery.The revery alone will do, If bees are few.

I felt a Cleaving in my Mind—As if my Brain had split—I tried to match it—Seam by Seam—But could not make it fit.

To see the Summer SkyIs Poetry, though never in a Book it lie—True Poems flee—

Not “Revelation” – tis – that waitsBut our unfurnished eyes –

Not with a club, the Heart is brokenNor with a Stone –A Whip so small you could not see itI've known

Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.

Not knowing when the dawn will comeI open every door.

Tell all the truth but tell it slant.

Heart, we will forget him, You and I, tonight!You must forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.

That I shall love always, I argue theethat love is life, and life hath immortality

That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all.

Plato offers the amazing idea that contemplation of the way things really are is, in itself, a purifying process that can bring human beings into the only divinity there is.

A great hope fellYou heard no noiseThe ruin was within.

The bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth, --The sweeping up the heart, And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity

A wounded dear leaps the highest

There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weightOf cathedral tunes.

Inebriate of Air — am I —And Debauchee of Dew —Reeling — thro endless summer days —From Inns of Molten Blue —