The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic … - Wallace Stevens

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But I feel that the greatest destroyer of peace today is abortion, because it is a war against the child, a direct killing of the innocent child, murder by the mother herself.

Wallace Stevens

The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.

Ice, Man, Men, Poem, Romantic, Winter

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The imagination is one of the forces of nature.

Force, Forces, Forces Of Nature, Imagination, Nature

The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.

Difficult, Journey, Way, World

The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.

Beautiful, Inspirational, Thing, Travel, World

Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.

Depends, Hiking, Lakes, Perhaps, Truth

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

Like, Night, Perfection, Summer

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Paul McCartney

To this day, if I ever meet grownups who play ukulele, I love 'em.

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Kay Redfield Jamison

Suicide carries in its aftermath a level of confusion and devastation that is, for the most part, beyond description.

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Mother Teresa

But I feel that the greatest destroyer of peace today is abortion, because it is a war against the child, a direct killing of the innocent child, murder by the mother herself.

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Ken Follett

You never know," Jack said speculatively. "There may come a time when savages like William Hamleigh aren't in power; when the laws protect the ordinary people instead of enslaving them; when the king makes peace instead of war. Think of that - a time when towns in England don't need walls!

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Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning, but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.

Forgotten, Knows, Lonely, Morning, Summer, Winter