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81 " The drinking dens are spilling outThere's staggering in the squareThere's lads and lasses falling aboutAnd a crackling in the airDown around the dungeon doorsThe shelters and the queuesEverybody's looking forSomebody's arms to fall intoAnd it's what it isIt's what it is nowThere's frost on the graves and the monumentsBut the taverns are warm in townPeople curse the governmentAnd shovel hot food downThe lights are out in the city hallThe castle and the keepThe moon shines down upon it allThe legless and asleepAnd it's cold on the tollgateWith the wagons creeping throughCold on the tollgateGod knows what I could do with youAnd it's what it isIt's what it is nowThe garrison sleeps in the citadelWith the ghosts and the ancient stonesHigh up on the parapetA Scottish piper stands aloneAnd high on the windThe highland drums begin to rollAnd something from the past just comesAnd stares into my soulAnd it's cold on the tollgateWith the Caledonian BluesCold on the tollgateGod knows what I could do with youAnd it's what it isIt's what it is nowWhat it isIt's what it is nowThere's a chink of light, there's a burning wickThere's a lantern in the towerWee Willie Winkie with a candlestickStill writing songs in the wee wee hoursOn Charlotte Street I takeA walking stick from my hotelThe ghost of Dirty DickIs still in search of Little NellAnd it's what it isIt's what it is nowOh what it isWhat it is now "
― Mark Knopfler , Sailing to Philadelphia
82 " It follows that the one thing we should not do to the men and women of past time, and particularly if they ghost through to us as larger than life, is to take them out of their historical contexts. To do so is to run the risk of turning them into monsters, whom we can denounce for our (frequently political) motives—an insidious game, because we are condemning in their make-up that which is likely to belong to a whole social world, the world that helped to fashion them and that is deviously reflected or distorted in them. Censure of this sort is the work of petty moralists and propagandists, not historians (p. 5). "
― Lauro Martines , Fire in the City: Savonarola and the Struggle for the Soul of Renaissance Florence
83 " The ghost stories were fascinating, made even more so by the personal connection between the living and the long-departed. The ghosts seemed content to be there. The truly amazing part of the story, however, was how happy the owner and staff of the inn were with their spirits. It made me want to stay there… and perhaps never leave. "
― James Caskey , St. Augustine Ghosts: Hauntings in the Ancient City
84 " To tell a ghost story means being willing to be haunted. "
― Judith "Jack" Halberstam
85 " She looked from the hilt protruding between her breasts into the eyes of the boy she loved. The golden light in them enfolded her and her heart stopped beating, leaving the ghost of her smile on her mouth. Her vacant eyes mirrored something infinitely close to peace. "
― Farrah Naseem
86 " Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber door — Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore —For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore.And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door —Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; — This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the door; — Darkness there, and nothing more.Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, " Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, " Lenore!" — Merely this, and nothing more.Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window lattice:Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; — 'Tis the wind and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door —Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — Perched, and sat, and nothing more.Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven,Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore —Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning— little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door —Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as " Nevermore. "
87 " Silent as a flower, her face fell in dismay, aware that the ghost of lust ate and left, sensing that there was a different scent of perfume consuming the room, and that she had numbered and counted the he loves me, he loves me not of each petal, where the lifeless dust had settle. "
― Anthony Liccione
88 " the two shall become oneMany at times we think that when the word says the two shall become one, it has to do with only a husband and his wife. It is way beyond our imagination, we have to be one with our Lord and God before even being one with your wife or siblings. Like a precious brother said one day: " people are arguing on the text but the context cannot be argued about " why? Because people think they know the text but they fail to know the context which is the spiritual understanding behind the text. The church is always arguing about the text, the Doctrine and so on, whilst the Bride is being impregnated in the secret place( her heart) then she will have a change of mind that will produce her husband again in physical form. May God help us to understand the God we claim to worship. You cannot worship God in Spirit if you don't have the truth, neither will you understand the truth if you don't have The Holy Ghost. Not a sensation or a feeling but the very seed, germ of Christ in your spiritual womb(Heart). Then if you have that life, you will do like The disciples did, baptising in Jesus-Christ's name instead of titles: father, son and Holy Ghost like the churches do think they have the truth. The truth is found only in them that are humble to unlearn to be able to learn. Just like brother Paul humbled Himself after being convinced that Jesus-Christ is not just the son of God but God Almighty Himself(Acts9,1-6). Without unity, no one will be raptured because the carnal( unbeliever) will always fight the spiritual (The Word). Shalom God bless you. "
89 " And I knowThe scariest part is letting goCause love is a ghost you can’t control "
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90 " And in the depths of music, I didn’t find the answer,And again there was silence, and again the ghost of summer. "
― Anna Akhmatova , The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova
91 " STAINSWith red clay between my toes,and the sun setting over my head,the ghost of my mother blows in,riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord,riding on a honeysuckle breeze.Her teeth, the keys of a piano.I play her grinning ivory noteswith cadenced fumbling fingers,splattered with paint, textured with scars.A song rises up from the belly of my pastand rocks me in the bosom of buried memories.My mama’s dress bears the stains of her life:blueberries, blood, bleach, and breast milk;She cradles in her arms a lifetime of love and sorrow;Its brilliance nearly blinds me.My fingers tire, as though I've played this song for years.The tune swells red, dying around the edges of a setting sun.A magnolia breeze blows in strong, a heavenly taxi sent to carry my mother home. She will not say goodbye.For there is no truth in spoken farewells.I am pregnant with a poem,my life lost in its stanzas.My mama steps out of her dressand drops it, an inheritance falling to my feet.She stands alone: bathed, blooming,burdened with nothing of this world.Her body is naked and beautiful,her wings gray and scorched,her brown eyes piercing the brown of mine.I watch her departure, her flapping wings:She doesn’t look back, not even once,not even to whisper my name: Brenda.I lick the teeth of my piano mouth.With a painter’s hands,with a writer’s handswith rusty wrinkled hands,with hands soaked in the joys,the sorrows, the spillsof my mother’s life,I pick up eighty-one years of stainsAnd pull her dress over my head.Her stains look good on me. "
― Brenda Sutton Rose
92 " Your kiss just seems too realYour touch the only thing I feelFrom your presence I can't seem to healA love without a sealThe faceless ghost in my dreams that I can't evade "
93 " My grandpa, unlike Jarod Kintz, was an Elder. Now that he's dead and gone, he's a ghost French wizard. And no one knows what French wizards are good at… "
― Will Advise , Nothing is here...
94 " Every family is a ghost story. "
― Mitch Albom , For One More Day
95 " Believe in God our Eternal Father, He who is greatest of all, who stands ever ready to help us and who has the power to do so. Believe in Jesus Christ, the Savior and the Redeemer of mankind, the worker of miracles, the greatest who ever walked the earth, the intercessor with our Father. Believe in the power of the Holy Ghost to lead, to inspire, to comfort, to protect. Believe in the Prophet Joseph, as an instrument in the hands of the Almighty in ushering in this the dispensation of the fullness of times. "
― Gordon B. Hinckley
96 " The fog was where I wanted to be. Halfway down the path you can’t see this house. You’d never know it was here. Or any of the other places down the avenue. I couldn’t see but a few feet ahead. I didn’t meet a soul. Everything looked and sounded unreal. Nothing was what it is. That’s what I wanted—to be alone with myself in another world where truth is untrue and life can hide from itself. Out beyond the harbor, where the road runs along the beach, I even lost the feeling of being on land. The fog and the sea seemed part of each other. It was like walking on the bottom of the sea. As if I had drowned long ago. As if I was the ghost belonging to the fog, and the fog was the ghost of the sea. It felt damned peaceful to be nothing more than a ghost within a ghost. "
― Eugene O'Neill , Long Day's Journey into Night
97 " Reality is a very subjective affair. I can only define it as a kind of gradual accumulation of information; and as specialization. If we take a lily, for instance, or any other kind of natural object, a lily is more real to a naturalist than it is to an ordinary person. But it is still more real to a botanist. And yet another stage of reality is reached with that botanist who is a specialist in lilies. You can get nearer and nearer, so to speak, to reality; but you never get near enough because reality is an infinite succession of steps, levels of perception, false bottoms, and hence unquenchable, unattainable. You can know more and more about one thing but you can never know everything about one thing: it’s hopeless. So that we live surrounded by more or less ghostly objects— that machine, there, for instance. It’s a complete ghost to me— I don’t understand a thing about it and, well, it’s a mystery to me, as much of a mystery as it would be to Lord Byron. "
― Vladimir Nabokov
98 " Look here, Mrs. Bradley," he said. " I feel a pretty frightful bounder telling you all this about the poor girl, but I think some woman ought to know about it. On Wednesday night, yes, last night, Eleanor came into my bedroom at about half-past twelve and--and wanted to stay there! I thought it was a ghost at first. I had terrible difficulty in getting rid of her. In fact, I had to get out of bed and shove her outside and lock the door. Choice, isn't it?" ..." Of course you will lock your door tonight," she said." You bet I shall," Bertie said fervently, " and nothing short of the house catching fire is going to persuade me to open it. "
