Pastoral Resources

I'll fill those canyons in your soul, like a river lead you home. And I'll walk a step behind, in the shadows so you shine. Just ask, it will be done and I will prove my love, until you're sure that I'm the one.

The repose of sleep refreshes only the body. It rarely sets the soul at rest. The repose of the night does not belong to us. It is not the possession of our being. Sleep opens within us an inn for phantoms. In the morning we must sweep out the shadows.

I have come to believe that there are infinite passageways out of the shadows, infinite vehicles to transport us into the light.

In this world, full often, our joys are only the tender shadows which our sorrows cast.

It is, then, by those shadows of the hoary Past and their fantastic silhouettes on the external screen of every religion and philosophy, that we can, by checking them as we go along, and comparing them, trace out finally the body that produced them.

If coming events are said to cast their shadows before, past events cannot fall to leave their impress behind them.

Life itself is but the shadow of death, and souls departed but the shadows of the living.

Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing.

It was still quite light out of doors, but inside with the curtains drawn and the smouldering fire sending out a dim, uncertain glow, the room was full of deep shadows.

One is forever throwing away substance for shadows.

I wear my shadows where they're harder to see, but they follow me everywhere. I guess that should tell me I'm travelling toward light.

Love is a trap. When it appears, we see only its light, not its shadows.

Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth. While truths, on which eternal things depend, can hardly find a single friend.

I'll often rush out from Dark Shadows, having made a 5.30PM appointment, working for a couple of hours.

There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast.

Words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes.

Suffering has roused them from the sleep of gentle life, and every day fills them with a terrible intoxication. They are now something more than themselves; those we loved were merely happy shadows.

You can disguise any set with lights and shadows.

What difference is there, do you think, between those in Plato's cave who can only marvel at the shadows and images of various objects, provided they are content and don't know what they miss, and the philosopher who has emerged from the cave and sees the real things?

Our acts our angels are, for good or ill, our fatal shadows that walk by us still.