Quotes About Renewal

Renovate your life, the old myths say, and the universe is yours.

This is where the pot is strongest now: at the place where it had been broken.

Forgiveness is the rich loam from which love can grow.

Shiva represents the reproductive power of destruction. The power of renovation. Which is why he's here in this room, where we dismantle and rebuild.

I Think it is lost.....but nothing is ever lost nor can be lost . The body sluggish, aged, cold, the ember left from earlier fires shall duly flame again.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean But I shall be good health to you nonetheless And filter and fibre your blood.

What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on - have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear - what remains? Nature remains; to bring out from their torpid recesses, the affinities of a man or woman with the open air, the trees, fields, the changes of seasons — the sun by day and the stars of heaven by night.

Agonies are one of my changes of garments.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runway sun, I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love. If you want me again look for me under your boot soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you

The past and the present wilt. I have fill'd them, emptied them, And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

It is not they who give the life, it is you who give the life, Leaves are not more shed from the trees, or trees from the earth, than they are shed out of you.

The past and present wilt—I have fill'd them, emptied them. And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

The earth remains jagged and broken only to him or her who remains jagged and broken.

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

I depart as air .... I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it in lacy jags. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.

And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons.

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.

Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost... ...Ample are time and space—ample the fields of Nature. The body, sluggish, aged, cold—the embers left from earlier fires, The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again;

the old name absorbs into me—MANNAHATTA, the place encircled by many swift tides and sparkling waters.

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.

MidÅ'n az orgona utólszor virult házunk elÅ'tt a kertben, S a nagy csillag korán lehanyatlott a nyugati égrÅ'l az éjbe, Gyászoltam, és mindig gyászolok én, amint a tavasz visszatér. Ó, örökkön visszatérÅ' tavasz! Te elhozod nékem e hármast: A minden évben kivirágzó orgonát, a lehanyatló csillagot nyugaton, És emlékét annak, kit szeretek.

Is this ten a touch? Quivering me to a new identity