Quotes About Dust

We were so poor the only family pet we could afford was dust bunnies.

All is clouded by desire: as fire by smoke, as a mirror by dust ...Through these it blinds the soul.

Poppies whose roots are in man's veins Drop, and are ever dropping; But mine in my ear is safe — Just a little white with the dust.

She did find that the books displayed prominently in every chamber had been dusted, but the spines were pristine and uncreased. They had the sad, untouched air of literature paraded for display purposes but never actually used. It was profoundly depressing.

As thikke as motes in the sonne-beem.

I draw the line in the dust and toss the gauntlet before the feet of tyranny, and I say segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.

The stars, like dust, encircle me In living mists of light; And all of space I seem to see In one vast burst of sight.

The dust and silence of the upper shelf.

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man. When Duty whispers low, Thou must, The youth replies, I can.

You became moon dust in my soul, I couldn't quite brush you away because somehow you always returned to haunt my heart.

Luck is not the hand of God.... Luck is the way the wind swirls and the dust settles eons after God has passed by.

In part, therefore, the attachment which I speak of is the mere sensuous sympathy of dust for dust.

They say time heals. No, it just wears away pain. It grinds everything to dust.

Wasn't it Jacqui who told us the human body is sity percent water? Well, now I know what the rest is. The rest is dust, the rest is ash, it's sorrow and it's grief... But above all that, in spite of all that, binding us together... is hope. And joy. And a wellspring of all the things that still might be.

Wasn't it Jacqui who told us the human body is sixty percent water? Well, now I know what the rest is. The rest is dust, the rest is ash, it's sorrow and it's grief... But above all that, in spite of all that, binding us together... is hope. And joy. And a wellspring of all the things that still might be.

The human body is sixty percent water. Well, now I know what the rest is. The rest is dust, the rest is ash, it's sorrow and it's grief... But above all that, in spite of all that, binding us together... is hope. And joy. And a wellspring of all the things that still might be.

The irony, however, is that with no body, the world itself becomes my body. One might think this would make me feel grand, but it doesn't. If my body is the Earth, then I am nothing more than a spec of dust in the vastness of space. I wonder what it would be like, then, if my consciousness were to someday span the distance between stars.

As man sows, so shall he reap. In works of fiction, such men are sometimes converted. More often, in real life, they do not change their natures until they are converted into dust.

It is those possessed by sublime madness who keep alive another way of being. W. H. Auden captured the solitude and even futility of such a life at the end of his poem "September 1, 1939." Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame.32 ———

Constitutional arguments that seem as dry as dust can have momentous consequences.

We try to exile ourselves more and more from nature - not always consciously: We build houses; we dismiss nature; nature has to be outside, because we're inside. God forbid something like a cockroach comes inside, or some dust.

Through Chance, we are each a ghost to all the others, and our only reality; through Chance, the huge hinge of the world, and a grain of dust; the stone that starts an avalanche, the pebble whose concentric circles widen across the seas.

He tells another story about all that dust in those days.

He tells another story about all that dust in those days. "My