A Quote by Marcus Tullius Cicero

No one sees what is before his feet: they scan the tracks of heaven. — © Marcus Tullius Cicero
No one sees what is before his feet: they scan the tracks of heaven.
No one sees what is before his feet: we all gaze at the stars. [Lat., Quod est ante pedes nemo spectat: coeli scrutantur plagas.]
God has such gladness every time he sees from heaven that a sinner is praying to Him with all his heart, as a mother has when she sees the first smile on her baby's face.
The artist should paint not only what he sees before him, but also what he sees within him. If, however, he sees nothing within him, then he should also refrain from painting that which he sees before him. Otherwise, his pictures will be like those folding screens behind which one expects to find only the sick or the dead.
He who sees only what is before his eyes sees the worst part of every view.
He who sees his heir in his own child, carries his eye over hopes and possessions lying far beyond his gravestone, viewing his life, even here, as a period but closed with a comma. He who sees his heir in another man's child sees the full stop at the end of the sentence.
My music represents walking on train tracks in the middle of the woods, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. You walk down the tracks and you're walking every two tracks, and you've got your headphones on, and on both sides you've got forest, and in your rear is this long line of train tracks that's weaving through the woods. It's a very cool place, to walk along the train tracks because of the rhythm of walking every few feet through the woods. It's a good place to go dream.
It is the just decree of Heaven that a traitor never sees his danger till his ruin is at hand.
We see a hearse; we think sorrow. We see a grave; we think despair. We hear of a death; we think of a loss. Not so in heaven. When heaven sees a breathless body, it sees the vacated cocoon & the liberated butterfly.
...he had a fascinating technique of gnawing his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, as if his teeth were equipped with trolley tracks, and suddenly grabbing it out and gesticulating wit it before he jammed it back.
Of this blest man, let his just praise be given, Heaven was in him, before he was in Heaven.
Jesus, that ear. He should donate it to The Smithsonian. Brian Wilson, he made all his records with four tracks, but you couldn't make his records if you had a hundred tracks today.
Let the emperor make war on heaven; let him lead heaven captive in his triumph; let him put guards on heaven; let him impose taxes on heaven! He cannot. . . . He gets his sceptre where he first got his humanity; his power where he got the breath of life.
He who lowers his mind to the dust of all men’s feet, Sees the Name of God enshrined in every heart.
A person who is worried about the outcome of his work does not see his goal; he sees only his opposition and the obstacles before him.
He whose head is in heaven need not fear to put his feet into the grave.
This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceived a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. This storm irresistably propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. The storm is what we call progress.
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