Quotes About Wonder

O wingèd brother on the harebell, stay— Was God's hand very pitiful, the hand That wrought thy beauty at a dream's demand? Yea, knowing I love so well the flowery way, He did not fling me to the world astray— He did not drop me to the weary sand, But bore me gently to a leafy land: Tinting my wings, He gave me to the day.

It always gives me a shiver when I see a cat seeing what I can't see.

Childhood is the sleep of reason...

Were I a philosopher, I should write a philosophy of toys, showing that nothing else in life need to be taken seriously, and that Christmas Day in the company of children is one of the few occasions on which men become entirely alive.

You must not blame me if I do talk to the clouds...

He'd lie in fields, And through his fingers watch the changing clouds, Those playful fancies of the mighty sky.

I teach you to know the wonder and the mystery of existence — not to analyse it but to enjoy it, not to make a theory out of it but to make a dance out of it. The whole existence is dancing, except men. They have become a big graveyard. I am calling you to come out of your graves.

A millennium without air or light pollution made for pitch-black skies. The stars didn't just appear anymore. They exploded. Diamonds on black velvet. You couldn't tear your eyes away.

One time as dusk slipped into dark, I stood upon a stubble-hill, And saw the stars come floating in Like chaff blown from a mill. And when the dark slipped into night, I saw chaff on the plain below. (The lights of a city smouldered there In phosphorescent glow.) The plain I knew, the sky I knew, But then I wondered in dismay Which were the stars, and which the lights… And I asked the night away.

Night in the desert. Nowhere else in all the world Night comes like this... My eyes, my human eyes, can see no end... The hard bright moon seems far, so far away— —The million, million stars that jeer at me— Great God, how big it is—and I But one more grain of sand beneath the immeasurable sky— Night in the desert...

It is the common wonder of all men, how, among so many millions of faces, there should be none alike...

A lady, with whom I was riding in the forest, said to me, that the woods always seemed to her to wait, as if the genii who inhabit them suspended their deeds until the wayfarer has passed onward: a thought which poetry has celebrated in the dance of the fairies, which breaks off on the approach of human feet.

A rustle in the wind reminds us a fairy is near.

Nobody is too old for fairy tales.

Now and again some anxious, troubled soul fears that fairy tales will harm the children. Children need fairy tales because they are the purest product of the highest kind of imagination. The lovely thing about them is exactly that they are so far removed from the actual world and so close to that better, fairer one where children dwell.

Surely no child, and few adults, have ever watched a bird in flight without envy.

The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don't.

Every day, spread the magical stardust of thankfulness into your life.

The butterfly upon the sky, who doesn't know its name, And hasn't any tax to pay, and hasn't any home, Is just as high as you and I, and higher, I believe – So soar away and never sigh, for that's the way to grieve.

...the fairy dust of poetry and glittery hope of dreams...

We were not many, and the world was very small. There were strange lands to the east- islands like Akutan; so we thought all the world was islands, and did not mind.

They had seen life, and done deeds, and lived romances, but they did not know it.

The rise of the Oligarchy will always remain a cause of secret wonder to the historian and the philosopher. Other great historical events have their place in social evolution. They were inevitable. Their coming could have been predicted with the same certitude that astronomers to-day predict the outcome of the movements of stars. Without

Bill—that was it; Bill, the Chauffeur. That was his name. He was a wretched, primitive man, wholly devoid of the finer instincts and chivalrous promptings of a cultured soul. No, there is no absolute justice, for to him fell that wonder of womanhood, Vesta Van Warden. The grievous-ness of this you will never understand, my grandsons; for you are yourselves primitive little savages, unaware of aught else but savagery. Why