#Willis Barnstone
Quotes about willis-barnstone
Willis Barnstone, a name synonymous with literary brilliance and profound insight, represents a rich tapestry of themes that resonate deeply with readers around the world. As a distinguished poet, translator, and scholar, Barnstone's work delves into the human experience, exploring themes such as love, spirituality, and the quest for understanding. His writings often serve as a bridge between cultures and epochs, offering a unique perspective that is both timeless and contemporary. People are drawn to quotes about Willis Barnstone because they encapsulate the essence of life's complexities with clarity and elegance. His words have the power to inspire introspection, evoke emotion, and ignite a passion for knowledge. Whether reflecting on the beauty of language or the intricacies of human relationships, Barnstone's insights offer a profound connection to the universal truths that bind us all. In a world where the search for meaning is ever-present, his quotes provide a beacon of wisdom and a source of comfort, inviting readers to explore the depths of their own thoughts and feelings.
Let the gods take care of everything. Many timesthey resurrect a man whom disaster left lying face down on the black earth. Many times they topplea man and pin him, back to the soil, though hewas solid on his feet. A multitude of evilsbatters him as he wanders hungry and mad.
Her sprig of myrtle clothed her beautiful roseThat her hands were happily playing with,And her hair fellAs darkness on her back and shoulders.SomeoneRight in the middle of the myrtle.
Nothing in the world can surprise me now. Nothingis impossible or too wonderful, for Zeus, fatherof the Olympians, has turned midday into black nightby shielding light from the blossoming sun,and now dark terror hangs over mankind.Anything may happen, so do not be amazed if beastson dry land seek pasture with dolphins inthe ocean, and those beasts who loved sunny hillslove crashing seawaves more than the warm mainland.
The great house glitters with bronze. War has patternedthe roof with shining helmets,their horsehair plumes waving in wind, headdressof fighting men. And pegsare concealed under bright greaves of brassthat block the iron-tipped arrows. Manyfresh-linen corslets are hanging and hollow shieldsare heaped about the floor,and standing in rows are swords of Chalkidian steel,belt-knives and warrior's kilts.We cannot forget our arms and armor when soonour dreadful duties begin.
It is late, for the harvest is in.Before, we hoped that the full vineswould bring a plenitude of fine grapes,but the clusters are slow to ripen and the landlordspicked unripe bunches from the branch.We have many grapes now—green and sour.
Not homes with beautiful roofs,nor walls of permanent stone,nor canals and piers for shipsmake the city—but men of strength.Not stone and timber, nor skillof carpenter—but men bravewho will handle sword and spear.With these you have a city and walls.
What birds are thesewildgeese—flying from precincts where the earthand oceans end—with their enormous wings and speckled throats?
I know the tunes of every bird,But I, Alkman, found my words and songin the tongueof the strident partridge.
Why water more wine in the great bowl?Why do you drown your gullet in grape?I cannot let you spill out your life on song and drink. Let us go to sea,and not let the wintry calm of morningslip by as a drunken sleep. Had weboarded at dawn, seized rudder and spunthe flapping crossjack into the wind,we would be happy now, happy as swimming in grape. But you draped a lazy armon my shoulder, saying: 'Sir, a pillow,your singing does not lead me to ships'.