Caveau Restaurant Quotes & Sayings

What the Danes left in Ireland were hens and weasels. And when the cock crows in the morning, the country people will always say 'It is for Denmark they are crowing. Crowing they are to be back in Denmark.' — Lady Gregory

It hurts when the one you love does not reciprocate your feelings. It hurts when all your efforts to set things straight go in vain. It hurts when you are unable to let go. It hurts when everything is rosy one moment and dark the next. All the emotions that are pent up inside you, suffocate you. The other person, it seems, has always been or becomes unemotional, unattached and either unaware or ignorant of your feelings. You are stuck at a place where there is no road ahead and you cannot find the road back home.

~ Lines from the Whispered Words article in June issue of Writer's Ezine — Arti Honrao

I have never played a game for the national title. Our goals always have been to win the Big Ten title and the Rose Bowl. If we do that, then we consider it a successful season. — Bo Schembechler

There is nothing more musical than a sunset. — Claude Debussy

The press creates a caricature. — Marianne Williamson

It is the chiefest point of happiness that a man is willing to be what he is. — Desiderius Erasmus

My neighbors aren't millionaires. They're retirees who depend on Social Security and Medicare. — Marco Rubio

If you want the long road to success do it all by yourself. — James Jean-Pierre

So we die before our own eyes; so we see some chapters of our lives come to their natural end. — Sarah Orne Jewett

Selah Moments: those times we lean into God's presence, hear His voice, and willingly receive the golden nuggets of truth-revelation He gifts us with. — Jo Ann Fore

Sometimes," Radar said to me, "he's so retarded that he becomes kind of brilliant. — John Green

Rebecca, always Rebecca. Wherever I walked in Manderley, wherever I sat, even in my thoughts and in my dreams, I met Rebecca. I knew her figure now, the long slim legs, the small and narrow feet. Her shoulders, broader than mine, the capable clever hands. Hands that could steer a boat, could hold a horse. Hands that arranged flowers, made the models of ships, and wrote 'Max from Rebecca' on the fly-leaf of a book. I knew her face too, small and oval, the clear white skin, the cloud of dark hair. I knew the scent she wore, I could guess her laughter and her smile. If I heard it, even among a thousand others, I should recognize her voice. Rebecca, always Rebecca. I should never be rid of Rebecca. — Daphne Du Maurier