quote by Phillips Brooks

The earth has grown old with its burden of care, but at Christmas it always is young, the heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair, and its soul full of music breaks the air, when the song of angels is sung.

— Phillips Brooks

Most Powerful Lustrous quotations

Good writing , like gold , combines lustrous lucidity with high density.

What this means is good writing is packed with hints.

When I stand at the top of the Champs-Elysées, with its chestnut trees in flower, its undulations of shining cars, its white spaciousness, I feel as if I were biting into a utopian fruit, something velvety and lustrous and rich and vivid.

Day's lustrous eyes grow heavy in sweet death.

Liberty is the most jealous and exacting mistress that can beguile the brain and soul of man. She will have nothing from him who will not give her all. She knows that his pretended love serves but to betray. But when once the fierce heat of her quenchless, lustrous eyes have burned into the victim's heart, he will know no other smile but hers.

Merit is never so conspicuous as when coupled with an obscure origin, just as the moon never appears so lustrous as when it emerges from a cloud.

I measure my life in sentences pressed out, line by line, like the lustrous ooze on the underside of the snail, the snail's secret open seam, its wound, leaking attar.

We who have seen Italia in the throes,Half risen but to be hurled to ground, and now,Like a ripe field of wheat where once drove plough,All bounteous as she is fair, we think of thoseWho blew the breath of life into her frame:Cavour, Mazzini, Garibaldi: Three:Her Brain, her Soul, her Sword; and set her freeFrom ruinous discords, with one lustrous aim.

The body, I have often thought, is like a promise.

You keep things in it. Those things are covert, immediate, yours. There is something lustrous about them. They emit energy, like radium or appliances. They can be replaced, repaired or simply discarded. The promise of the body is very firm and intact. It's the only promise we can count on, and we can't really count on it very much.

There is a black which is old and a black which is fresh.

Lustrous black and dull black, black in sunlight and black in shadow.

It made her think of Laika, the dog. The man-made satellite streaking soundlessly across the blackness of outer space. The dark, lustrous eyes of the dog gazing out the tiny window. In the infinite loneliness of space, what could the dog possibly be looking at?