Best 46 quotes in «weary quotes» category

I am never weary of being useful... In serving others I cannot do enough. No labor is sufficient to tire me.

And if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary Him with my assiduous cries.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? - Epithalamion

It is a shameful thing to be weary of inquiry when what we search for is excellent.

If you are weary of some sleepy form of devotion, probably God is as weary of it as you are.

May my life be like a great hospitable tree, and may weary wanderers find in me a rest.

The Stoic assures us that what is happening now will happen over and over again. [If so, Providende would] ultimately grow weary through despair.

I was always very shy but as I get older I think, What am I being shy for? You just grow weary of your own hang-ups.

Though we often see life troughs as the universe's conspiracy to ruin us, they're actually our own true nature inviting us to lay down our weary heads.

My friends: let us have faith in each other. Let us not grow weary.

The delights of lust terminate in languishment and dejection; the object thou burnest for nauseates with satiety, and no sooner hadst thou possessed it, but thou wert weary of its presence.

When you're weary, find relief. When you're strong, find delight.

When you leave, weary of me, without a word, I shall gently let you go.

Approaching the Start of Civil Exams Perhaps I was once a young Chinese scholar approaching the start of civil exams, my mind grown weary and sad from seclusion with books on syntax and poetic style. All that I knew were the mist-covered mountains and sweet white blossoms of mountain apples that grew in the valleys of my province. But I had been gone over six years busy with studies in the Heavenly City empty and thin despite my work. I showed my verses to an older poet who told me a truth I longed to believe: all knowledge is futile and barren which does not open the love of your friends.

And more than that, she just looked… tired. Like she’d battled the world and the world had won.

Arrogance based on relentless denial of faults eventually makes a person weary.

As a king can wear a crown, a crown can also weary a king.

Wine gives strength to weary men.

Are you not tired as I am of waking up every morning and seeing the sun all over again? Tired of living the same life, suffering the same sorrow? Tired of desiring, and tired of being sated? Tired of waiting, and tired of possessing?

David did many might deeds in his life. He did many foolish deeds in his life. But perhaps the noblest was their rarely discussed deed: he honored the tired soldiers at Brook Besor. (Facing Your Giants) p 78

Be sure that your praise songs are numbered higher than your sorrowful dirges and your utmost hope, firmer than your woeful regrets. Be positive.

Find strength in your heartbeat, than weakness with a beat heart. Take each breath as another chance, and love for a new day.

Do we kill time, or does time ultimately kill us?

Do not be weary to make money.

Fear makes you worry and worry makes you weary.

Getting an education is an awfully wearing process!

He ached with weariness, but it became part of him; he scarcely noticed now that he was weary, he might always have been thus, it was so familiar to him.

Here's another poem, like all others before and after, dedicated to you. There isn't anything left to be said but I will spend my life trying to put you into words. You who is every goodness, every optimism and hope. Your love is a better fate for me than anything I could wish for. If you are a part of me, then you’re the best part. And if you're separate from me, then you are my destination. But I’ve become a weary traveller, so please, let us never be apart.

I am fed up. I am fed up with tears and weakness.

Gennia is eating and talking to Ruiz on the phone. Each time he takes a mouthful, he catches a whiff of his shirt, which stinks of failure and yesterday.

I am not a finished poem, and I am not the song you’ve turned me into. I am a detached human being, making my way in a world that is constantly trying to push me aside, and you who send me letters and emails and beautiful gifts wouldn’t even recognise me if you saw me walking down the street where I live tomorrow for I am not a poem. I am tired and worn out and the eyes you would see would not be painted or inspired but empty and weary from drinking too much at all times and I am not the life of your party who sings and has glorious words to speak for I don’t speak much at all and my voice is raspy and unsteady from unhealthy living and not much sleep and I only use it when I sing and I always sing too much or not at all and never when people are around because they expect poems and symphonies and I am not a poem but an elegy at my best but unedited and uncut and not a lot of people want to work with me because there’s only so much you can do with an audio take, with the plug-ins and EQs and I was born distorted, disordered, and I’m pretty fine with that, but others are not.

If a friend starts behaving silly because you bother him so much, don't worry, you're not the first person, he has got a sting in his stomach, an hunger that causes an epidemic hatred.

Living appears good, long, and tiresome, but it is way too short than a single stroke of lightning.

It's wearying, like Caliban buttonholing you in hell and telling you the struggle he's having getting along with himself.

Once lively peonies now wind-weary, and ragged at the edges, hang their heavy crowns; rain on their backs, one final act, before detaching from the stem and falling down.

It was good that she remembered him, though it was exhausting to do so. No rest for the weary. Or the dying. Or the dead.

The earth grieves, and I grieve, and I am weary of the fight

O, weary angels, don’t look at me with those eyes. If that is your state then what of our cries? What can I tell you of goodness that you don’t already know? What can I tell you of faith, of hope and love that you yourselves bestow? O, angels, don’t pluck another feather, this isn’t the sky, it’s just the weather. Please, angels, try. We are one all together. Look up and listen, I’ll say it once and then put down my pen: We are sorry for our ignorance and even though we are worldly, it might happen again. We are sorry for your weariness and even though you aren’t worldly, we are no more than human.

She shook her head, and closed her eyes. I felt her weariness then, and with it, my own. I felt it dark and heavy upon me, darker and heavier than any drug they ever gave me - it seemed heavy as death. I looked at the bed. I have seemed to see our kisses there sometimes, I've seen them hanging in the curtains, like bats, ready to swoop. Now, I thought, I might jolt the post and they would only fall, and shatter, and turn to powder.

the lonely mind wanders. the happy mind goes. the weary mind travels. the thoughtful mind flows.

To worry is to wear yourself out.

Upon the King! Let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children, and our sins, lay on the King! We must bear all. O hard condition, Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel But his own wringing! What infinite heart's ease Must kings neglect that private men enjoy! And what have kings that privates have not too, Save ceremony- save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers? What are thy rents? What are thy comings-in? O Ceremony, show me but thy worth! What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men? Wherein thou art less happy being fear'd Than they in fearing. What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness, And bid thy ceremony give thee cure! Thinks thou the fiery fever will go out With titles blown from adulation? Will it give place to flexure and low bending? Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee, Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream, That play'st so subtly with a king's repose. I am a king that find thee; and I know 'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced tide running fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world- No, not all these, thrice gorgeous ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave Who, with a body fill'd and vacant mind, Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread; Never sees horrid night, the child of hell; But, like a lackey, from the rise to set Sweats in the eye of Pheebus, and all night Sleeps in Elysium; next day, after dawn, Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse; And follows so the ever-running year With profitable labour, to his grave. And but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country's peace, Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

When frustrated and weary take time to accept that there is no such thing as an insurmountable mountain...You merely have to find the right path...

When we are “time traveling”, we may trip over problems from the past which distort our memory. If we are weary of dealing with lost causes or lame ducks in our history, we have to make up our mind and give up destructive thinking patterns. At that juncture, time has come to go back to the future. ( “A glimpse of the future" )

Worry leads to weary.

Weariness should never hinder us from wanting to see restoration in a friend who is in the midst of brokenness.