A Quote by Charles Caleb Colton

The brightest thunder-bolt is elicited from the darkest storm. — © Charles Caleb Colton
The brightest thunder-bolt is elicited from the darkest storm.
Times of great calamity and confusion have been productive for the greatest minds. The purest ore is produced from the hottest furnace. The brightest thunder-bolt is elicited from the darkest storm.
When a vision comes from the thunder beings of the west, it comes with terror like a thunder storm; but when the storm of vision has passed, the world is greenier and happier; for wherever the truth of vision comes upon the world, it is like a rain. The world, you see, is happier after the terror of the storm.
A drop of water is as powerful as a thunder-bolt.
You see, to find the brightest wisdom one must pass through the darkest zones. And through the darkest zones there can be no guide. No guide, that is, but courage
On my darkest days, I wear my brightest colors.
In the darkest place, shed the brightest light.
The darkest nights produce the brightest stars.
It is in the darkest night that the light we are shines brightest
The brightest flame casts the darkest shadow.
The shadows are only the darkest when the light is at its brightest.
A thunder-storm!—the eloquence of heaven, When every cloud is from its slumber riven, Who hath not paused beneath its hollow groan, And felt Omnipotence around him thrown? With what a gloom the ush’ring scene appears! The leaves all shiv’ring with instinctive fears, The waters curling with a fellow dread, A veiling fervour round creation spread, And, last, the heavy rain’s reluctant shower, With big drops patt’ring on the tree and bower, While wizard shapes the bowing sky deform,— All mark the coming of the thunder-storm!
I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
I find hope in the darkest of days, and focus in the brightest. I do not judge the universe.
For, in life, it is in the darkest zones one finds the brightest beauty and the most luminous wisdom.
Each day the storm clouds were opening like great purple flowers and pouring out their dark thunder. Each nightfall, the storm was laid down on their houses like a burden the day had carried.
Memory is fiction. We select the brightest and the darkest, ignoring what we are ashamed of, and so embroider the broad tapestry of our lives.
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