|
Still Life & Landscape
|
|
--Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) |
|
Apples were they with which we were beguil'd,
Yet sin, not Apples, hath our souls defil'd. Apples forbid, if eat, corrupts the Blood; To eat such when commanded, does us good. Drink of his Flagons, then, thou Church, his Dove, And eat his Apples, who are sick of Love. |
|
The Poet gathers fruit from every tree,
Yea, grapes from thorns and figs from thistles he. Plucked by his hand, the basest weed that grows Towers to a lily, reddens to a rose. |
|
--Galileo Galilei (1564-1642), in a letter |
|
--Joseph Story, U.S. Supreme Court Justice (nineteenth century) |
|
--Nicolai A. Berdyaev |
|
--James McNeill Whistler (1834-1903) |
|
--Robert Browning (1812-1889), from "Fra Lippo Lippi" |
|
--William Penn |
|
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then, In busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow; Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude. |
|
--Deuternomy 8:3 |
|
--F. A. Schaeffer |
|
--Benjamin Franklin |
|
Oh my black Soule! now thou art summoned
By sicknesse, deaths herald, and champion; Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turne to whence hee is fled, Or like a thief, which till deaths doome be read, Wisheth himselfe delivered from prison; But damn'd and hal'd to execution, Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned; Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lacke; But who shall give thee that grace to beginne? Oh make thy selfe with holy mourning blacke, And red with blushing, as thou art with sinne; Or wash thee in Christs blood, which hath this might That being red, it dyes red soules to white. |