44 ordspråk av William Collins

William Collins

William Collins föddes den 25 december 1721
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Not to say that authors are all such sourpusses, but you meet the author in the best possible way, on the written page. I am at my best there, more patient, more thoughtful.

And with Yeats you lean against a broken pear tree,
the day hooded by low clouds.

It means treasury, but it is just a place
where words congregate with their relatives,
a big park where hundreds of family reunions
are always being held.

'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung.

This is our nation's capital. To have Major League Baseball return to our nation's capital has a special significance, ... There's the opportunity to own something that has been a part of the tradition and legacy of the city and the surrounding area, and now can become part of the fabric of our community.

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, / May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me, I would shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

Words like feminism or democracy scare me. They are words with barnacles on them, and you can't see what's underneath.

But tomorrow, dawn will come the way I picture her,
barefoot and disheveled, standing outside my window
in one of the fragile cotton dresses of the poor.
She will look in at me with her thin arms extended,
offering a handful of birdsong and a small cup of light.

The sunlight flashes off your windshield,
and when I look up into the small, posted mirror,
I watch you diminish--my echo, my twin--
and vanish around a curve in this whip
of a road we can't help traveling together.

In unsettled times like these, when world cultures, countries and religions are facing off in violent confrontations, we could benefit from the reminder that storytelling is common to all civilizations. Whether in the form of a sprawling epic or a pointed ballad, the story is our most ancient method of making sense out of experience and of preserving the past.

Here's to the wind blowing against this lighted house
and to the vast, windless spaces between the stars.

In a while, one of us will go up to bed
and the other one will follow.
Then we will slip below the surface of the night
into miles of water, drifting down and down
to the dark, soundless bottom
until the weight of dreams pulls us lower still.

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