Quotes About Reflection

first book of Corinthians: "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

The body is not the Bodhi tree. The mind, no mirror bright. Since nothing is there, on what should dust alight?

doing nothing often leads to the very best of something

Menyindir biar berasas, memuji biar berisi.

Time for a little something.

I suppose that everyone of us hopes secretly for immortality; to leave, I mean, a name behind him which will live forever in this world, whatever he may be doing, himself, in the next.

Halfway down the stairs, is a stair, where I sit. There isn't any, other stair, quite like, it. I'm not at the bottom, I'm not at the top; So this is the stair, where, I always, stop. Halfway up the stairs, isn't up, and isn't down. It isn't in the nursery, it isn't in the town. And all sorts of funny thoughts, run round my head: It isn't really anywhere! It's somewhere else instead!

The more he looked inside the more Piglet wasn't there.

He is an important person to this story, so that it is as well we should know something about him before letting him loose in it. Let us stop him at the top of the hill on some excuse, and have a good look at him.

I have been Foolish and Deluded," said he, "and I am a Bear of No Brain at All.

I am a bear of little brain.

Sleep on your writing; take a walk over it; scrutinize it of a morning; review it of an afternoon; digest it after a meal; let it sleep in your drawer a twelvemonth; never venture a whisper about it to your friend, if he be an author especially.

When you get to my age life seems little more than one long march to and from the lavatory.

With innovation and technology, seems we have forgotten to cherish the true beauty the world has to offer.

Never has been a LONG hortatory poem', Pound advised John Hargrave, the leader of the Green Shirts, a militant wing of Social Credit: 'Epic…is not incitement to IMMEDIATE act/ you tell the tale to direct the auditor toward admiration of certain nobilities, courage etc.' Or, putting it another way, this time to Basil Bunting as a fellow poet, 'The poet's job is to define and yet again define till the detail of surface is in accord with the root in justice.

Three minutes thought would suffice to find this out but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.

Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;Breath's a ware that will not keep.Up, lad: when the journey's overThere'll be time enough to sleep.

And silence sounds no worse than cheersAfter earth has stopped the ears.

Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,Gold that I never see.

When I was one-and-twentyI heard him say again,"The heart out of the bosomWas never given in vain;'Tis paid with sighs aplentyAnd sold for endless rue."And I am two-and-twenty,And Oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

Oh, when I was in love with you,Then I was clean and brave,And miles around the wonder grewHow well I did behave.And now the fancy passes by,And nothing will remain,And miles around they'll say that IAm quite myself again.

The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.

Experience has taught me, when I am shaving of a morning, to keep watch over my thoughts, because if a line of poetry strays into my memory, my skin bristles so that the razor ceases to act.