A Quote by Liam O'Flaherty

Ours is the wild tumult of the unchained storm, the tumult of the army on the march, clashing its cymbals, rioting with excess of energy. Need we be ashamed of it?

Liam O'Flaherty

Quote Topics

Army Ashamed Cymbals Energy Excess March Need Ours Rioting Storm Tumult Wild

Quote Author

Liam O'Flaherty
Irish - Novelist
August 28, 1896 - September 7, 1984

Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.

Samuel Beckett

The summer day was spoiled with fitful storm; At night the wind died and the soft rain dropped; With lulling murmur, and the air was warm, And all the tumult and the trouble stopped.

Celia Thaxter

All through the night, like the tumult of a river when it races between the cliffs of a canyon, in my sleep I could hear the steady roar of the passing army.

Richard Harding Davis

There is need occasionally to leave the noise and the tumult of the world and step within the walls of a sacred house of God, there to feel His Spirit in an environment of holiness and peace.

Gordon B. Hinckley

We're not going to waste our valuable space or your precious energy by giving equal time to stories of tragedy, failure, and tumult. They get far more that their fair share of attention everywhere else. Future historians might even conclude that our age suffered from a collective obsessive-compulsive disorder: the pathological need to repetitively seek out reasons for how bad life is.

Rob Brezsny

Happiness arises in a state of peace, not of tumult.

Ann Radcliffe

The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.

William Wordsworth

I prefer the tumult of liberty to the quiet of servitude

Thomas Jefferson

My father died in my arms. That's tumult. That's everything exploding.

Richard Ford

Love softens the hardest edges of life's tumult.

Bryant H. McGill

Through her, in microcosm, the wide earth sobbed. The starglobe sank in her; the colours faded. The death-dew rose and the wild birds in her breast climbed to her throat and gathered songless, hovering, all tumult, wing to wing, so ardent for those climes where all things end.