A Quote by Rick Wakeman
I'm a Freemason, and we love to celebrate Burns' night: piping in the haggis, the whole lot.
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Haggis is delicious. It is wonderful. It's spicy, it's tasty, and you get vegetarian haggis as well.
A haggis maker in Dumfries called Stuart Houston was one of my favourite ports of call - we made some lovely haggis tempura.
Allow humans to be themselves and celebrate that selfness. Love the metaphoric mind and respect the rational. Nurture Motivation. Consider any attempt at communication appropriate. Celebrate the whole person.
Awareness is fire; it burns all that is wrong in you. It burns your ego. It burns your greed, it burns your possessiveness, it burns your jealousy - it burns all that is wrong and negative, and it enhances all that is beautiful, graceful, divine.
You should celebrate the end of a love affair as they celebrate death in New Orleans, with songs, laughter, dancing and a lot of wine.
Obviously, if you win a trophy, like I won when I was a player, it's a moment to celebrate. For me - this is my mentality, and I don't want to say it's right or wrong - I love to celebrate in private and not make it public. I love to celebrate the things with your team-mates.
I think there's two kinds of love. One kind of love burns so hot that it burns out before you get a chance to enjoy it. The other love is one that lifts you and makes you better than you were before.
I love whiskey and haggis. I can't get enough of either.
Love is kind of like when you see a fog in the morning, when you wake up before the sun comes out. It's just a little while, and then it burns away... Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality.
I love the night passionately. I love it as I love my country, or my mistress, with an instinctive, deep, and unshakeable love. I love it with all my senses: I love to see it, I love to breathe it in, I love to open my ears to its silence, I love my whole body to be caressed by its blackness. Skylarks sing in the sunshine, the blue sky, the warm air, in the fresh morning light. The owl flies by night, a dark shadow passing through the darkness; he hoots his sinister, quivering hoot, as though he delights in the intoxicating black immensity of space.
The sinner is not the one who uses a lot of grace... The saint burns grace like a 747 burns fuel on take off.
Right afterwards there was a whole, whole lot of press to do, so the week after, all day, every day, was press so I didn't really get a chance to celebrate.
I love the night passionately... I love it with all my senses: I love to see it, I love to breathe it in, I love to open my ears to its silence, I love my whole body to be caressed by its blackness.
Though sands be black and bitter black the sea, Night lie before me and behind me night, And God within far Heaven refuse to light The consolation of the dawn for me,-- Between the shadowy burns of Heaven and Hell, It is enough love leaves my soul to dwell With memory.
Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: "Pipe a song about a Lamb." So I piped with merry cheer; "Piper, pipe that song again." So I piped; he wept to hear.
In the attic, a warhead no doubt burns. Everything is combustible. Faith burns. Trust burns. Everything burns to nothing and even nothing burns. . . . And when there is nothing, there is nothing worth dying for and when there is nothing worth dying for, there is only nothing.
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