Quotes from bishop elizabeth ii

Love is feathered like a bird To keep him warm, To keep him safe from harm, And by what winds or drafts his nest is stirred They chill not Love. Warm lives he: No warmth gives off, Or none to me.

Sometimes it seems ... as though only intelligent people are stupid enough to fall in love & only stupid people are intelligent enough to let themselves be loved.

If you catch him, hold up a flashlight to his eye. It's all dark pupil, an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens as he stares back, and closes up the eye. Then from the lids one tear, his only possession, like the bee's sting, slips. Slyly he palms it, and if you're not paying attention he'll swallow it. However, if you watch, he'll hand it over, cool as from undergrouns springs and pure enough to drink.

Nature repeats herself, or almost does: repeat, repeat, repeat, revise, revise, revise.

Most of this tragic waste of life is due to malnutrition. But often the malnutrition is due not so much to actual lack of food as to ignorance, a vicious circle in which poverty creates ignorance which then creates more poverty.

I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of some song sung to rest the tired dead, A song to fall like water on my head, And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

If after I read a poem, the world looks like that poem for 24 hours or so, I'm sure it's a good one.

It's past midnight and very silent and I'm probably keeping the night doorman awake as well as Lota, and a mystery man across the garden who sits up all night with three bright lights on, as if giving himself a 3rd degree--only he always does seem to be awake & alone. Tonight he did something very strange for a while--and finally we saw that he was (silently) playing a cello.

Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasily like a dog looking for a place to sleep in, listen to it growling.

Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone? What similarities boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even the National Geographic and those awful hanging breasts held us all together or made us all just one?

Winter lives under a pigeon's wing, a dead wing with damp feathers.

The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

The ancient owls' nest must have burned. Hastily, all alone, a glistening armadillo left the scene, rose-flecked, head down, tail down