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'Tis spring; come out to ramble The hilly brakes around, For under thorn and bramble About the hollow ground The primroses are found. And there's the windflower chilly With all the winds at play, And there's the Lenten lily That has not long to stay And dies on Easter day.
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Cats, no less liquid than their shadows, offer no angles to the wind. They slip, diminished, neat, through loopholes less than themselves.
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For in the voyage of the heart, there is a freight of hatred, and the wind of wrath blows shrill.
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Getting old ain't for the faint of heart.
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I just don't want to die the same day Castro dies
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... so many tremendous decisions in life are made because it is five o'clock.
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When the clock strikes 2, 3, and 4, if the band slows down we'll yell for more.
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This is the only leadership life I get, my one and only shot at following God the way I feel him prompting me to do so. This isn't some pre-game warm-up. It's the game, and the clock is ticking!
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Kentucky wants to occupy some clock
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You can't turn back the clock. But you can wind it up again.
