yet if you had a desire for good or beautiful thingsand your tongue were not concocting some evil to sayshame would not hold down your eyesbut rather you would speak about what is just

their heart grew coldthey let their wings down

In fact she herself once blamed meKyprogeneiabecause I prayed this word:I want.

]sing to usthe one with violets in her lap]mostly]goes astray

Someone will remember us I sayEven in another time

Evening you gather backall that dazzling dawn has put asunder:you gather a lamb, gather a kid, gather a child to its mother.

A farmer is a magician who produces money from the mud.

I think happiness is what makes you pretty. Period. Happy people are beautiful. They become like a mirror and they reflect that happiness.

Don't worry, all is well. All is so perfectly, damnably well.

On this life you will act like a scientist, you need to keep experimenting and do some mistakes, but in the end you will find out how to make things so perfect ...

A man that should call everything by its right name would hardly pass the streets without being knocked down as a common enemy.

The minister's brain is often the "poor-box" of the church.

I think our failure in the production of good town churches of distinctive character must have struck you often, as it has me, when contrasted with our comparative success in country churches.

Well, if everything stays the same forever, you stop enjoying what you've got. And stop appreciating people.

The moment a man stops dreaming is the moment he petrifies inside.

My wife and I always enjoy going for a jog.