Quotes About Lethe

That's what hell must be like, small chat to the babbling of Lethe about the good old days when we wished we were dead.

And if no Lethe flows beneath your casement, And when ten years have not brought full effacement, Philosophy was wrong, and you may meet.

You don't need to know this - but here goes: due to some acquired infantilism, I feel compelled to fall asleep listening to the radio. On a good night, I'll push the frail barque of my psyche off into the waters of Lethe accompanied by the midnight newsreader - on a bad one, it's the shipping forecast.

I'd been in the densest part of the earth's aura he told me, an aqueous region which was the source of myths about the waters of Lethe, the River Styx.

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twistWolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine.

Far off from these a slow and silent stream,Lethe the river of oblivion rolls.

Fill pleasure's bowl at Lethe's stream, And I'll be gay at last; The draught that makes the future bright, Must drown the dreary past.

For Lethe is for no man set, And in Hell may no man forget.

Space, like time, engenders forgetfulness; but it does so by setting us bodily free from our surroundings and giving us back our primitive, unattached state ... Time, we say, is Lethe; but change of air is a similar draught, and, if it works less thoroughly, does so more quickly.

Time, we say, is Lethe; but change of air is a similar draught, and, if it works less thoroughly, does so more quickly.

L'oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche, Et le Léthé coule dans tes baisers.

Now when these souls have trodden the full circle of a thousand years, God call's all of them forth in long procession to the Lethe River, and this he does so that when they again visit the sky's vault they may be without memory, and a wish to re-enter bodily life may dawn.

What relish is in this? How runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream. Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep. If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!

You ask me why a soft numbness diffuses all my inmost senses with deep oblivion, as though with thirsty throat I'd drained the cup that brings the sleep of Lethe.

Not to know. Not to remember. With this one hope: That beyond the River Lethe, there is memory, healed.

We are slumberous poppies, Lords of Lethe downs, Some awake and some asleep, Sleeping in our crowns. What perchance our dreams may know, Let our serious may know.

Then he would leave for the underworld, where I could never go, for gods are the opposite of death. I tried to imagine those dusky hills and gray meadows, the shades moving slow and white among them. Some walked hand in hand with those they had loved in life; some waited, secure that one day their beloved would come. And for those who had not loved, whose lives had been filled with pain and horror, there was the black river Lethe, where one might drink and forget. Some consolation.