hair quotes
You will never get on in politics, my dear, with that hair.
When a woman ceases to alter the fashion of her hair, you guess that she has passed the crisis of her experience.
Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane, Wi'ribbons in her hair; The king thought mair o'Marie Hamilton Than ony that were there.
'O I forbid you, maidens a', That wear gowd on your hair, To come or gae by Carterhaugh, For youngTam Lin is there. 'There's nane that gaes by Carterhaugh, But they leave him a wad. Either their rings or green mantles, Or else their maidenhead.' Janet has kilted her green kirtle A little aboon her knee, And she has braided her yellow hair A little aboon her bree, And she's awa'to Carterhaugh As fast as she can hie.
O waly, waly up the bank, And waly, waly doun the brae, And waly, waly yon burn-side Where I and my love wont to gae. I lean'd my back unto an aik, I thocht it was a trustie tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brake Sae my true love did lichtlie me. O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie A little time while it is new; But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld And fades awa' like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my heid, O wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true love has me forsook, And says he'll never lo'e me mair.
Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves'eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead. Thy teeth are like a flockof sheep that are evenshorn, whichcameup from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks. Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armoury, whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men. Thy two breasts are liketwo young roesthat aretwins, which feed among the lilies.Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, and tothehill of frankincense.Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.
If a man have long hair, it is a shame unto him. But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair isgiven her for a covering.
O thou who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, ally the heat That flames from their large nostrils! thou,O Summer, Beneath our oaks hast slept while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Straightway I was 'ware So weeping, how a mystic shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair And a voice said in mastery while I strove 'Guess now who holds thee!''Death', I said, but there The silver answer rang 'Not Death, but Love.'
Dear, dead woman, with suchhair, toowhat's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.
As for the grass, it grewas scant as hair in leprosythin dried blades pricked the mud which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, stood stupefied.
He was in logic a great critic, Profoundly skilled in analytic. He could distinguish and divide A hair 'twixt south and southwest side.
'You are old, Father William,'the young man said, 'And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head Do you think, at your age, it is right?' 'In my youth,' Father William replied to his son, 'I feared it might injure the brain; But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.' See Southey 805:96.
'Tis the voice of the lobster; I heard him declare, 'You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.'
Who is the smiling stranger With hair as white as gin, What is he doing with the children And who could have let him in?
When a woman isn't beautiful, people always say,'You have lovely eyes, you have lovely hair.'
And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Nobody knowshow towrite letters; and yet onehas 'em, one does not know why.They serve one to pin up one's hair.
: Madam, do you pin up your hair with all your letters? : Only with those in verse, Mr Witwoud. I never pin up my hair with prose.
Dead echoes! But I knew her body there, Time like a serpent down her shoulder, dark, And space, an eaglet's wing, laid on her hair.
Ihave eyes like a bullfrog, a neck like anostrich and long, limp hair.You just have to be good to survive with that equipment.
Pero la verdad es que estoy cansada, horriblemente cansada de ser la esposa femenina de ese animal masculino que se rasca, pierde el pelo sistema ticamente y canta tangos pasados de moda! Quisieraquisiera engordar, fumar un puro y enviudar de una manera indolora y elegante. The truth is, I'm tired, frightfully tired of being the feminine spouse to the masculine animal who scratches himself, systematically loses his hair and sings outdated tangos! I'd like I'd like to get fat, to smoke cigars and to become a widow in a painless and elegant fashion.
Stand on the highest pavement of the stair Lean on a garden urn Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
When lovely woman stoops to follyand Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone. See Goldsmith 361:47.
I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair, Floating, like a vapour, on the soft summer air.
Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air.
Who says that fictions onlyand false hair Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? Is all good structure in a winding stair?
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrist? And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists? And wherefore ishewearing such a conscience-stricken air? Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.
'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his; In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is; Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.
She stands an instant in the sun Athwart her harsh land's red and green Hands of a serf, and warrior eyes Of some flame-sceptred Irish queen. As if she does not care that life Has reft the jewels from her hair But grieves that menial needs and base Were those that left her palace bare.
A man of your head and hair should owe more to that reverend ceremony, and not mountthemarriage bed like atown-bull, ora mountain-goat; but stay the dueseason and ascend it then with religion and fear.
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeleine's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory like a saint: She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven.
Presently I shall be introduced as 'this venerable old gentleman'and the axe will fall when they raise meto the degreeof 'grandoldman'.Thatmeansonourcontinentany onewithsnow-whitehair whohaskeptoutof jailtill eighty.
When I lie tangled in her hair, And fettered to her eye; The Gods, that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.
Amarantha sweet and fair, Ah braid no more that shining hair! As my curious hand or eye, Hovering round thee let it fly.
I met ayont the cairney A lass wi' tousled hair Singin'till a bairnie That was nae langer there.
Something of glass about her, of dead water, Chills and holds us, Far more fatal than painted flesh or the lodestone of live hair This despair of crystal brilliance.
Alas! What boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely slighted Shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless muse; Were it not better done as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life.
Sculpture in stone should look honestly like stoneto make it look like flesh and blood, hair and dimples is coming down to the level of the stage conjuror.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome.
His true Penelope was Flaubert, He fished by obstinate isles; Observed the elegance of Circe's hair Rather than the mottoes on sundials.
There is no looking-glass here and I don't know what I am like now. I remember watching myself brush my hair and how my eyes looked back at me. The girl I saw was myself and yet not quite myself. Long ago when I was a child and very lonely I tried to kiss her. But the glass was between ushard, cold and misted over with my breath.Now they havetaken everything away.What am I doing in this place and who am I?
The blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven.
Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn.
Lo! as that youth's eyes burned at thine, so went Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent And round his heart one strangling golden hair. 698
'A chain of gold ye sall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair; Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair.'
I'll make my old clothes know who's master. I shall straightaway cashier the hunting-frock, and render my leather breeches incapable. My hair has been in training some time.
They have no education, no taste for reading, no housewifery, nor, indeed, any earthly occupation but that ofdressingtheirhair, andadorningtheirbodies.Theyhate walking, and would never go abroad, if they were not stimulated by the vanityof being seen Nothing can be more parsimonious than the economy of these people. They live upon soup and bouille, fish and salad.
'I'll not hurt thee,'says my uncleToby, rising from his chair, and going across the room, with the fly in his hand, 'I'll not hurt a hair of thy head:Go,'says he, lifting up the sash, and opening his hand as he spoke, to let it escape;'go, poor devil, get thee gone, why should I hurt thee?This world surely is wide enough to hold both thee and me.'
When Jesus came to Birmingham they simply passed Him by, They never hurt a hair of him, they only let Him die. For menhadgrownmoretenderandthey wouldnot give Him pain, Theyonlyjust passeddownthestreet, and left Himinthe rain.
Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold, A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold?
'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.
With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair.
I stand before you tonight in my green chiffon evening gown, my face softly made up, my fair hair gently wavedthe Iron Lady of the Western World? Me? A Cold War warrior? Well, yesif that is how they wish to interpret my defence of values and freedoms fundamental to our way of life.
Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair, And dream about the great and their pride; They have spoken against you everywhere, But weigh this song with the great and their pride; I made it out of a mouthful of air, Their children's children shall say they have lied.
Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.
Webster's New World Dictionary of Quotations Copyright © 2010 by Chambers Harrap Publishers Ltd. All rights reserved. Published by Wiley, Hoboken, NJ. Used by arrangement with John Wiley & Sons, Inc.
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