Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Sparhawk. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Sparhawk Quotes And Sayings by 87 Authors including Elizabeth Barrett Browning,Walt Whitman,Beilby Porteus,Adelbert Von Chamisso,Muse for you to enjoy and share.

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I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
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Solitary the thrush,
The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the
settlements,
Sings by himself a song.
Song of the bleeding throat!
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Through the sequester'd vale of rural life
The venerable patriarch guileless held
The tenor of his way.
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After a prosperous, but to me very wearisome, voyage, we came at last into port. Immediately on landing I got together my few effects; and, squeezing myself through the crowd, went into the nearest and humblest inn which first met my gaze.
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Depths of Friendship
... under fathoms deep
of dark and bitter cold
an eerie oscillation
reverberated brash and bold ...
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What, man, do you mistake the hollow sky For a thronged tavern ... ?
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Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray, Each in the other melting.
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A modest little person, with much to be modest about.
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So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenced in stronds afar remote.
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Winter crescent resting in the high pine bough - you fly through the woods like a lone snow bird ...
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Tonight
A parapet of breeze
tonight on which to lean
my melancholy
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A high church for the true mediocre.
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Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace,
Grant me. Father, a servant's place.
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How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.
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I don't need any support, encouragement, or consolation because, although I am the lowest of men, I feel nonetheless so strong, so hard, so savage! For I am the only man who lives with- out hope, the apex of heroism and paradox.
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A radiant fellowship of the fallen.
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Tethered to the ground by quotidian conversation.
... the window rosy with anemic November light.
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I name you Elf-friend; and may the stars shine upon the end of your road!
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Know then, unnumber'd Spirits round thee fly, The light Militia of the lower sky.
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Fenwick, sitting down to
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A lumbering soul but trying to fly...
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Oh, sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise. By mountains pil'd on mountains to the skies? Heav'n still with laughter the vain toil surveys, And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.
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On Sundays, at the matin-chime, The Alpine peasants, two and three, Climb up here to pray; Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, Ride out to church from Chamberry, Dight with mantles gay, But else it is a lonely time Round the Church of Brou.
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Who has known heights and depths shall not again Know peace - not as the calm heart knows
Low, ivied walls; a garden close;
And though he tread the humble ways of men
He shall not speak the common tongue again.
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The Son of the Carpenter made the door of heaven so low that you must either take off your plumes or stoop humbly to enter it.
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Daughter of heaven and earth, coy Spring,
With sudden passion languishing,
Teaching barren moors to smile,
Painting pictures mile on mile,
Holds a cup of cowslip wreaths
Whence a smokeless incense breathes.
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Bright star of Eanna, forgive me the manner of this, but you are the harbor of my soul's journeying.
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Feather-footed through the plashy fen passes the questing vole.'
William Boot
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We are singing pilgrims, though the way be rough.
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the cloak of Sorrow: O
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Come to me, squeeze my hand, know my loneliness, and give me the love, the strength to prevail on the perilous road before me.
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benediction. Below the window, on one of the bastioned
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I beg you come tonight and dine
A welcome waits you and sound wine
The Roederer chilly to a charm
As Juno's breasts the claret warm ...
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Here ends my forever memorable first High Sierra excursion. I have crossed the Range of Light, surely the brightest and best of all the Lord has built. And, rejoicing in its glory, I gladly, gratefully, hopefully pray I may see it again.
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I testify
to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven
and walls of colour,
the colonnades of jasper.
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Once through this ruined city did I pass
I espied a lonely bird on a bough and asked
'What knowest thou of this wilderness?'
It replied: 'I can sum it up in two words:
'Alas, Alas!
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Your woe hath been my anguish; yea, I quail
And perish in your perishing unblest.
And I have searched the highths and depths, the scope
Of all our universe, with desperate hope
To find some solace for your wild unrest.
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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You're at the bottom of the mountain. May you climb up without suffering.
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Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one,
A few feet of cold earth, when life is done;
A stone at the head, a stone at the feet,
A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat;
Rank grass over head, and damp clay around,
Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground!
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Welcome, old aspirations, glittering creatures of an ardent underneath the holly! We know you, and have not outlived you yet. Welcome, old projects, and old loves, however fleeting, to your nooks among the steadier lights that burn around us
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In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs-and God has given my share-
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down.
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The thorny point
Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
Of smooth civility; yet am I inland bred
And know some nurture.
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Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb - or Dome of Worm - or Porch of Gnome - or some Elf's Catacomb?
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Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, -
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag, -

Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree, -
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea.
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Bergulme. Elsbeere. Hagebuche. Efeu. Scots elm. Service tree. Hornbeam.
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He is one of those who has had the wilderness for a pillow, and called a star his brother. Alone. But loneliness can be a communion.
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May the countryside and the gliding valley streams content me. Lost to fame, let me love river and woodland.
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Veiled melancholy has her sovereign shrine
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brooding over the upper reaches, became
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We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die, We Poets of the proud old lineage Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why What shall we tell you? Tales, marvellous tales Of ships and stars and isles where good men rest.
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Humble we must be, if to heaven we go; High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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But in the beaten way of friendship what make you at Elsinore?
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Melancholy,
my old friend,
visits frequent,
once again.
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What of the melancholy, may I ask?"
"Stubbornly persistent, I'm sorry to say."
"If only modest joy were so dogged, eh?"
"You said something there, sir.
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There is a society in the deepest solitude.
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Gaslight Goods. Let us be your light in the midst of life's darkness, the sunlight in your foggy day, the candle in your wind. This is Kite. How can I help you today?
I grimaced. That was their opener?
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Who sees pale Mammom pine amidst his store, Sees but a backward steward for the poor.
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There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.
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My dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
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The Lark Ascending";
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Lo! the poor toper whose untutored sense, Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense; Whose head proud fancy never taught to steer, Beyond the muddy ecstasies of beer.
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Sublime Philosophy! Thou art the patriarch's ladder, reaching heaven; And bright with beckoning angels-but alas! We see thee, like the patriarch, but in dreams, By the first step, dull slumbering on the earth.
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We cannot know what John of Leyden felt Under the Bishop 's tongs - we can only Walk in temperate London, our educated city, Wishing to cry as freely as they did who died In the Age of Faith. We have our loneliness And our regret with which to build an eschatology.
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Those who escaped the noose settled here, at the very bottom, the absolute edge of peculiar society. Exiled from the outcasts of outcasts
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Messenger of sympathy and love, Servant of parted friends, Consoler of the lonely, Bond of the scattered family, Enlarger of the common life.
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Narrow lanes climb both slopes and come together in a great ring of elm trees which encircles the flat summit. Any wind
even the slightest
draws from the height of the elms a rushing sound, multifoliate and powerful.
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Leave my loneliness unbroken
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Welly, welly, welly, welly, welly, welly, well. To what do I owe the extreme pleasure of this surprising visit?
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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May the Lord comfort the lonely and suffering souls.
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We sleepwalkers of the day! We artists! We who conceal naturalness! We who are moon- and God-struck! We untiring wanderers, silent as death, on heights that we see not as heights but as our plains, as our safety.
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Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel, and a revolver. S. H. It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry through the dim, fog-draped streets.
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Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse - and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness -
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
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I have ascended to the highest in me, and look, the Word is towering above that. I have descended to explore my lowest depths, and I found Him deeper still.
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Who aspires must down as low
As high he soar'd.
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When I think of this life I have led; the desolation of solitude it has been; the masoned, walled-town of a Captain's exclusiveness, which admits but small entrance to any sympathy from the green country without - oh, weariness! heaviness! Guinea-coast slavery of solitary command!
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And so one more to the wandering road. Beyond Blackheath the highway began a steep and curvaceous descent towards Lithgow, where it skirted along hem of the mountains ...
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By a route obscure and lonely Haunted by ill angels only, Where an eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule
From a wild, weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of SPACE, out of TIME.
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O Elbereth! Gilthoniel! We still remember, we who dwell In this far land beneath the trees. Thy starlight on the Western Seas.
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[in the true mad north] of introspection,
where 'falcons of the inner eye'
dive and die, glimpsing in their
dying fall, all life's memory of existence.
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Soulless. Banished. But never forgotten.
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In the valley of sorrow, spread your wings.
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Out here, in the cold, with the moon and the huge stars overhead and with kind, merry faces all round them, one couldn't quite believe in Underland.
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But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight; Casting a dim religious light.
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Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.
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On this road
where nobody else travels
autumn nightfall.
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Joy, thou spark from Heav'n immortal, Daughter of Elysium! Drunk with fire, toward Heaven advancing Goddess, to thy shrine we come. Thy sweet magic brings together What stern Custom spreads afar; All men become brothers Where thy happy wing-beats are.
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The wise man will follow a star, low and large and fierce in the heavens, but the nearer he comes to it the smaller and smaller it will grow,
till he finds it the humble lantern over some little inn or stable. Not till we know the high things shall we know how lowly they are.
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And so, under a short grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great grove of stars.
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Followers of trails and of seasons, breakers of camp in the little dawn wind, seekers of watercourses over the wrinkled rind of the world, o seekers, o finders of reasons to be up and be gone ...
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They talk about their Pilgrim blood, their birthright high and holy! a mountain-stream that ends in mud thinks is melancholy.
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Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober steadfast, and demure, all in a robe of darkest grain, flowing with majestic train.
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Humbledrum farted mournfully, three distinct notes.
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The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow.
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Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks and mountains?
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Here's lumbos. Where misties swaddlum, where misches lodge none, where mystries pour kind on, O sleepy! So be yet!
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Come when the rains
Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice,
While the slant sun of February pours
Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach!
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps
And the broad arching portals of the grove
Welcome thy entering.
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And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems clear As may, with sweetness, through mine ear Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all heaven before mine eyes.