Quotes

There is a reason soldering iron handles are bright yellow. It will still not stop you from picking it up by the hot bit at least once…

source: /. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,—-
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—-
To thy high requiem become a sod

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—-do I wake or sleep?

Ode To A Nightingale—John Keats, 1819

A REAL HOME is a playground. Beware of the house where no
rough-housing is allowed and no cries of glee are heard.

A REAL HOME is a workshop. Pity the child who is unfamiliar with
wrenches and hammers, knitting needles, thread, screwdrivers and saws.

A REAL HOME is a forum. Honest, open discussion of life’s great
problems belongs originally and primarily in the family circle.

A REAL HOME is a secret society. Loyalty to one’s family should mean
keeping silent on things that are the family’s business and no one else’s.

A REAL HOME is cooperative. Households flourish in peace when the
interest of each is the interest of all.

A REAL HOME is a school. Many of life’s most important and lasting
lessons are learned here, both early in life and later on.

A REAL HOME is a temple, where people are loved and respected
and where life is appreciated, in the recognition that life in all its parts is
a gift of God, with our family being our personal and most precious gift.

Is your home, A REAL HOME?

Author Unknown

I wish I could answer that question without hurting anyone, myself included.

After stress-testing my last post on a fellow [SAS] member, he asked me if I always thought like a program, or did I used to think like a human. To which I immediately thought of a remark for first Corinthians, and adapted it to suit.

“When I was a human I spoke as a human, I understood as a human, I thought as a human; but when I became a program I put away humanish thing.”

I really don’t like to quote myself, even if it’s a rip off of something St. Paul is credited with, but I really liked that target of opportunity, lol. It was just tooo good to miss!

No man is an island unto himself, nor a pillar of stone or bust of marble to be adored for pureness sake: evil lurks in every mans heart, just as surely as goodness may lay nestled in thy bosom?