Quotes About Lost

The angels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory." In

The angels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory

My mind turned by anxiety, or other cause, from its scrutiny of blank paper, is like a lost child–wandering the house, sitting on the bottom step to cry.

I exist only in the soles of my feet and in the tired muscles of my thighs. We have been walking for hours it seems. But where? I cannot remember.

Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.

Long years— he sighs. Again you found me. Here, she murmurs.

There was a mystery about it. You were given a sharp, acute, uncomfortable grain—the actual meeting; horribly painful as often not; yet in absence, in the most unlikely places, it would flower out, open, shed its scent, let you touch, taste, look about you, get the whole feel of it and understanding, after years of lying lost.

as perhaps at midnight, when all boundaries are lost

at midnight, when all boundaries are lost, the country reverts to its ancient shape, as the Romans saw it, lying cloudy, when they landed, and the hills had no names and rivers wound they knew not where

with somebody's lost pair of sun-glasses for only witness.

You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.

A certain man once lost a diamond cuff-link in the wide blue sea, and twenty years later, on the exact day, a Friday apparently, he was eating a large fish - but there was no diamond inside. That's what I like about coincidence.

I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze I cannot get out, said the starling

The lost glove is happy.

I could isolate, consciously, little. Everything seemed blurred, yellow-clouded, yielding nothing tangible. Her inept acrostics, maudlin evasions, theopathies - every recollection formed ripples of mysterious meaning. Everything seemed yellowly blurred, illusive, lost.

I can't tell you how I knew - but I did know that I had crossed The border. Everything I loved was lost But no aorta could report regret. A sun of rubber was convulsed and set; And blood-black nothingness began to spin A system of cells interlinked within Cells interlinked within cells interlinked Within one stem. And dreadfully distinct Against the dark, a tall white fountain played.

One of our sillier Zemblan proverbs says: the lost glove is happy. Promptly

We must thank fate (and the author's thirst for universal fame) for his not having turned to the Ukrainian dialect as a medium of expression, because then he would have been lost. When I want a good nightmare I imagine Gogol penning in Little Russian dialect volume after volume of Dikanka and Mirgorod stuff about ghosts haunting the banks of the Dniepr, burlesque Jews and dashing Cossacks.

A writer is lost when he grows interested in such questions as 'what is art?' and 'what is an artist's duty?

I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze.

Was I in here last night and did I spend a $20 bill? Oh, thank goodness... I thought I'd lost it.

We're no longer trying to impose our will on non-Christians. We're trying to keep non-Christians from imposing their will on us—and our churches. If you haven't noticed, the culture wars are over. We lost.

We need to realize that God is an intensely social Being. He is constantly working to bring the lost and the least to feast at his table. He is perpetually connecting his followers with those who need to experience his love.

It's a mystery where your daughter's gone, and a mystery where the other two've gone,