Michael Owen Bruce Quotes

This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.

Think of a lifeless forest in which a small plant pushes its head upward, out of the ruin. In our grief process, we are moving into life from death, without denying the devastation that came before.

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.

When sparrows build and the leaves break forth, My old sorrow wakes and cries.

I felt that I was leaving part of myself behind, and that wherever I went afterwards I should feel the lack of it, and search for it hopelessly, as ghosts are said to do, frequenting the spots where they buried material treasures without which they cannot pay their way to the nether world.

MUSIC I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was more than bread. Now that I am without you, all is desolate, All that was once so beautiful is dead. Your hands once touched this table and this silver,And I have seen your fingers hold this glass. These things do not remember you, beloved: And yet your touch upon them will not pass. For it was in my heart you moved among them,And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes.And in my heart they will remember always: They knew you once, O beautiful and wise!

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

From every ruin, life springs up again and everything that dies is born again.

We have missed him in the sunshine, in the storm, in the twilight, ever since.

I am waiting for the lost music to sound again in a new rebirth of wonder.

The distance that the dead have gone Does not at first appear- Their coming back seems possible For many an ardent year.

I drug your ghost across the country, and we plotted out my death. Every city and memory we whispered "Here is where you rest." Well I was determined in Chicago but I dug my teeth into my knees And I settled for a telephone, sang into your machine: "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too. Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

And all the winds go sighing, for sweet things dying.

Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.

Spring is a true reconstructionist.

If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.

Absence and death are the same - only that in death there is no suffering.

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter into another!

The return makes one love the farewell.

You can lose people without them dying, and I have, from moving, from traveling. The emotion is real, it just doesn't actually have to do with death. I'm singing about what I know, and it's a song about longing for somebody who's disappeared in your life.

In spring, the dead trees, roots, and animals come to life again exactly as they were, thus providing hundreds of thousands of examples, specimens, and proofs of the supreme resurrection.