Quotes About Struggle

Hope became something to cling to when there was nothing else but despair.

But not all men seek rest and peace; some are born with the spirit of the storm in their blood.

Gleaming shell of an outworn lie; fable of Right divine— You gained your crowns by heritage, but Blood was the price of mine. The throne that I won by blood and sweat , by Crom, I will not sell For promise of valleys filled with gold, or threat of the Halls of Hell!

Over the souls of men spread the condor wings of colossal monsters and all manner of evil things prey upon the heart and soul and body of Man. Yet it may be in some far day the shadows shall fade and the Prince of Darkness be chained forever in his hell. And till then mankind can but stand up stoutly to the monsters in his own heart and without, and with the aid of God he may yet triumph.

How can I wear the harness of toil And sweat at the daily round, While in my soul forever The drums of Pictdom sound?

I think we got some work done, back at the start, because nobody knew us, nobody bothered us - and we had no money.

What is good is difficult, and what is difficult is rare.

A strong man tied to a weak man… When there is trouble, the strong man's strength counts for nothing.

There was always something worse.

Freedom is a terrible burden, much too heavy for the weak man to bear.

A beast barely able to restrain itself carried a risk to its master.

And were an epitaph to be my story I'd have a short one ready for my own. I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover's quarrel with the world.

I turned to speak to God About the world's despair But to make bad matters worse I found God wasn't there.

It looked as if a night of dark intent was coming, and not only a night, an age. Someone had better be prepared for rage...

Lodged The rain to the wind said, 'You push and I'll pelt.' They so smote the garden bed. That the flowers actually knelt, And lay lodged -- though not dead. I know how the flowers felt.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves.

I had A Lover's Quarrel With The World.

Door in the Dark: In going from room to room in the dark, I reached out blindly to save my face, But neglected, however lightly, to lace My fingers and close my arms in an arc. A slim door got in past my guard, And hit me a blow in the head so hard I had my native simile jarred. So people and things don't pair any more With what they used to pair with before.

Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us write for money. Beginners are subjected to trial by market.

Though we choose greatly, still to lack The lasting memory at all clear, That life has for us on the wrack Nothing but what we somehow chose; Thus are we wholly stripped of pride In the pain that has but one close, Bearing it crushed and mystified.

Life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig's having lashed across it open.

The play seems out for an almost infinite run. Don't mind a little thing like the actors fighting. The only thing I worry about is the sun. Well be all right if nothing goes wrong with the lighting.

No wonder poets sometimes have to seem So much more businesslike than businessmen. Their wares are so much harder to get rid of.

Such is the uncaged progress of the bear. The world has room to make a bear feel free; The universe seems cramped to you and me. Man acts more like the poor bear in a cage, That all day fights a nervous inward rage, His mood rejecting all his mind suggests. He paces back and forth and never rests The toenail click and shuffle of his feet, The telescope at one end of his beat, And at the other end the microscope, Two instruments of nearly equal hope, And in conjunction giving quite a spread.