#horns

With horns and a full rhythm section, the drums always looked like the best seat in the house. ↗

— Levon Helm

#best #drums #full #horns #house

I don't have the insight with the Longhorns that I do with the two teams that I own, but as a fan and reading the sports pages, I'm bullish about the Longhorns. ↗

— Tom Hicks

#bullish #fan #i #i do #insight

The land of literature is a fairy land to those who view it at a distance, but, like all other landscapes, the charm fades on a nearer approach, and the thorns and briars become visible. ↗

— Washington Irving

#become #charm #distance #fades #fairy

You slam a politician, you make out he's the devil, with horns and hoofs. But his wife loves him, and so did all his mistresses. ↗

— Pamela Hansford Johnson

#did #him #his #horns #loves

I wear my Viking helmet because the horns define how sharp my brains are. If you try to rub me the wrong way, I will stick you with both of my horns. ↗

— Flavor Flav

#both #brains #define #helmet #horns

Some people are always grumbling because roses have thorns; I am thankful that thorns have roses. ↗

— Alphonse Karr

#always #am #because #grumbling #i

Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us. ↗

— Voltaire

#greater #harm #i #know #life

In our family, mom and dad are Longhorns, our first two kids are Aggies and we're hoping our last one is a Longhorn. It gives us family fun on Thanksgiving Day. ↗

— Bob Wells

#day #family #first #fun #gives

Roses and thorns are parts of the same plant. Somehow though, some people are concerned mainly about the roses. The rose is not on the plant for more than a week, but the thorns are there forever. Roses are teaching that the beauty of life will bloom, once you have taught yourself the lessons given by living with the thorns. ↗

— Grigoris Deoudis

#bloom #lesson #life #people #plant

Why Roses Crave Thorns" Petals detach from a wilting bud—a single stem plucked before fully blossomed. They descend in hesitant swirls, too soft and limp to shatter like teardrops. One by one they light to blanket a single shadow below. She is a rose, young and innocent, with beauty incomparable to shame all others. She has flowered enough to stop the observer in his tracks, awestruck. He is compelled to reach out and touch. The petals delight at a silken caress, her bud everything desirable but defenseless—without a sharp edge to make an admirer pause, to warn the intrusive hand. ‘Stay back! Stay back!’ His fingers curl around the stem to tug, and suddenly the rose craves a thorn. It is madness not to want her and yet madness to cut her down. Let the flower thrive and blush to someday flaunt layers of silken favors! But the world will not have it. A single stem is severed in a selfish moment of desire—a yearning to hold and possess. Alone and forgotten her petals cry, raining in hesitant swirls where they accumulate to blanket her shadow below. Dry, withered, craving the thorns. Beautiful no more. ↗

— Richelle E. Goodrich

#richelle #richelle-goodrich #rose #thorns #verse