Pageantries Quotes & Sayings

O blissful poverty!
Nature, too partial! to thy lot assigns
Health, freedom, innocence, and downy peace,
Her real goods; and only mocks the great,
With empty pageantries! — Elijah Fenton

We celebrate our intelligence, possessions, looks, talent, and achievements. Heaven celebrates how we used all of it. — LeCrae

Unlike we are, unlike, O princely Heart!
Unlike our uses and our destinies ...
Thou, bethink thee, art
A guest for queens to social pageantries,
With gages from a hundred brighter eyes
Than tears even can make mine ...
What hast though to do
With looking from the lattice-lights at me,
A poor, tired, wandering singer ... — Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Caroline: 'You know Sora. I don't. It will hurt you. It won't hurt me. Nothing hurts me.'
Lake: 'Liar. Just breathing hurts you so bad, you want to beat the snot out of something. — Jennifer Lynn Barnes

You must converse much with the field and the woods if you would imbibe such health into your mind and spirit as you covet for your body — Henry David Thoreau

I'm not an economist and we all know economists were created to make weather forecasters look good. — Rupert Murdoch

I recall one particular sunset. It lent an ember to my bicycle hell. Overhead, above the black music of telegraph wires, a number of long, dark-violet clouds lined with flamingo pink hung motionless in a fan-shaped arrangement; the whole thing was like some prodigious ovation in terms of color and form! It was dying, however, and everything else was darkening, too; but just above the horizon, in a lucid, turquoise space, beneath a black stratus, the eye found a vista that only a fool could mistake for the square parts of this or any other sunset. It occupied a very small sector of the enormous sky and had the peculiar neatness of something seen through the wrong end of a telescope. There it lay in wait, a brilliant convolutions, anachronistic in their creaminess and extremely remote; remote but perfect in every detail; fantastically reduced but faultlessly shaped; my marvelous tomorrow ready to be delivered to me. — Vladimir Nabokov

I drove out. There were a half-dozen cars there. A house man let me in. Brell came hurrying to me to pump my hand. He was a trim-bodied man in his late forties, dark and handsome in a slightly vulpine way, and I suspected he wore a very expensive and inconspicuous hair piece. He looked the type to go bald early. He had a resonant voice and a slightly theatrical presence. He wore tailored twill ranch pants and a crisp white shirt with blue piping. — John D. MacDonald