A Quote by William Batchelder Greene

Life is a waste of woes, And Death a river deep, That ever onward flows, Troubled, yet asleep. — © William Batchelder Greene
Life is a waste of woes, And Death a river deep, That ever onward flows, Troubled, yet asleep.
Spirit is Life. It flows thru the death of me endlessly like a river unafraid of becoming the sea.
The deep parts of my life pour onward, as if the river shores were opening out. I feel closer to what language can't reach. With my senses, as with birds, I climb into the windy heaven... in the ponds broken off from the sky. . .
The continuity of life is never broken; the river flows onward and is lost to our sight, but under its new horizon it carries the same waters which it gathered under ours, and its unseen valleys are made glad by the offerings which are borne down to them from the past,--flowers, perchance, the germs of which its own waves had planted on the banks of Time.
My parents never had any money. It was cash flow. It flows, and you got your fingers in it for a little while, and it flows away. That's all I know about money. And I don't know, it flows and it's a river, but you can never, ever keep it. As an artist, I can't keep it. But hey, a man who dies with a cent in the bank is a foolish man. So I guess I'm going against the conservators. I'm a spendthrift.
I am beginning to understand that the stream the scientists are studying is not just a little creek. It's a river of energy that moves across regions in great geographic cycles. Here, life and death are only different points on a continuum. The stream flows in a circle through time and space, turning death into life across coastal ecosystems, as it has for more than a million years. But such streams no longer flow in the places where most of us live.
Night and day the river flows. If time is the mind of space, the River is the soul of the desert. Brave boatmen come, they go, they die, the voyage flows on forever. We are all canyoneers. We are all passengers on this little mossy ship, this delicate dory sailing round the sun that humans call the earth. Joy, shipmates, joy.
We can none of us step into the same river twice, but the river flows on and the other river we step into is cool and refreshing, too
These are matters of external history. They are indeed prominent objects, often changing and giving a new direction to the current; but they tell us not why it flows onward and will ever flow.
You are asleep. Deep, deep asleep - and then the world caves in. The cat has leapt from the top window onto your stomach. He is saturated. He is hungry. He taps you into full wakefulness with a sodden paw "Could you open a can?"
How will you find good? It is not a thing of choice; it is a river that flows from the foot of the Invisible Throne and flows by the path of obedience.
How could drops of water know themselves to be a river? Yet the river flows on.
The river that flows in you also flows in me.
Time itself flows on with constant motion, just like a river: for no more than a river can the fleeting hour stand still. As wave is driven on by wave, and, itself pursued, pursues the one before, so the moments of time at once flee and follow, and are ever new.
A dream is like a river ever changing as it flows and a dreamer's just a vessel that must follow where it goes.
No man ever came to an experience which was satiating, but his good is tidings of a better. Onward and onward!
Is America a land of God where saints abide for ever? Where golden fields spread fair and broad, where flows the crystal river? Certainly not flush with saints, and a good thing, too, for the saints sent buzzing into man's ken now are but poor-mouthed ecclesiastical film stars and clich?-shouting publicity agents. Their little knowledge bringing them nearer to their ignorance, ignorance bringing them nearer to death, but nearness to death no nearer to God.
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