Downcast Quotes

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He saw her charming, but he saw not half The charms her downcast modesty conceal'd.
Perfectly beautiful: let it be granted her: where is the fault? All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, Dead perfection, no more.
There was a soft and pensive grace, A cast of thought upon her face, That suited well the forehead high, The eyelash dark, and downcast eve.
• Walter Scott, Rokeby, Canto IV, Stanza 5.
• Source: Wikiquote: "Beauty" (Quotes, Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations: Quotes reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 57-63.)
You were better than a million men, When the faces of men were downcast, Brave? You were braver than the tiger, Generous? You were more generous than The unstoppable deluge flowing between mountains.
For my errors loom over my head; Like a heavy burden, they are too much for me to bear. My wounds stink and fester Because of my foolishness. I am distressed and extremely downcast; I walk around sad all day long.
He who hopes for spring with upturned eye never sees so small a thing as Draba. He who despairs of spring with downcast eye steps on it, unknowingly. He who searches for spring with his knees in the mud finds it, in abundance.
Aldo Leopold
• “April: Draba”, p. 26.
• Source: Wikiquote: "Aldo Leopold" (Quotes, A Sand County Almanac, 1949: A Sand County Almanac: And Sketches Here and There is a collection of essays published by Oxford University Press in 1949. Reprint editions include A Sand County Almanac: With Essays on Conservation from Round River (Oxford, 1966) and A Sand County Almanac Illustrated (Tamarack Press, 1977). P. references here pertain to the 1949 edition., "April: Come High Water," "April: Draba," "April: Bur Oak," & "April:Sky Dance")
For some men, the stronger their desire, the more difficult it is for them to act. They are hampered by mistrust of themselves, daunted by the fear of giving offence; besides, deep feelings of affection are like respectable women; they are afraid of being found out and they go through life with downcast eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his alter'd soul The various turns of chance below; And, now and then, a sigh he, stole, And tears began to flow The mighty master smiled to see That Love was in the next degree, 'Twas but a kindred sound to move: For Pity melts the mind to Love.
Several dozen journals now exist that print only verse. They don't publish literary reviews, just page after page of freshly minted poems. The heart sinks to see so many poems crammed so tightly together, like downcast immigrants in steerage. One can easily miss a radiant poem amid the many lackluster ones. It takes tremendous effort to read these small magazines with openness and attention. Few people bother, generally not even the magazines' contributors. The indifference to poetry in the mass media has created a monster of the opposite kind — journals that love poetry not wisely but too well.
Dana Gioia
• Source: Wikiquote: "Dana Gioia" (Sourced, Essays, Can Poetry Matter? (1991): First published in The Atlantic Monthly (May 1991) and later in Can Poetry Matter? Essays on Poetry and American Culture (1992) Source text here)
It is rather difficult to describe Heidegger’s face because he could never look straight into one’s eyes for long. His natural expression revealed a reflective brow, an inscrutable countenance, and downcast eyes, which now and again would cast a quick glance to assess the situation. Forced, in conversation, to look one straight in the face, he would appear reserved and insecure, for he lacked the gift of candid communication with other people. Hence his natural expression was one of cautious, peasant-sly mistrust
By holiness in life, guard the precious Gem of Gems. Aum Tat Sat Aum! I am thou, thou art I — parts of the Divine Self. My Warriors! Life thunders — be watchful. Danger! The soul hearkens to its warning! The world is in turmoil — strive for salvation. I invoke blessings unto you. Salvation will be yours! Life nourishes the soul. Strive for the life glorified, and for the realization of purity. Put aside all prejudices — think freely. Be not downcast but full of hope. Flee not from life, but walk the path of salvation.
Is it not a good deed to restrain the arm of someone who wants to commit a misdeed, and is it not also a good deed to restrain the judgment of someone who wants to misjudge and cannot judge otherwise if acknowledgment of the good does not prevent it? Much wrong can be done to a person, but perhaps the worst is to come with belated repentance over a rash, unjust judgment that one nevertheless has oneself helped to occasion. As you can see, if this happens, if a person goes astray in this way by doing the good, he can thank himself and cowardliness, because God gives a spirit of power of love, and of self-control. […] Do not do the good ashamedly and with downcast eyes, as if you were walking a forbidden road, acknowledge it even though you are ashamed because you always feel your own imperfection and lower your eyes before God. Venture it in trust in God. Let each one acknowledge the good, renewed in his resolution, never led astray by any jugglery that it is more difficult to serve the good when one is misjudged. How would it help for it to be more difficult if it was also less true or for it to be more difficult for many if it was easier for him?
Her expression remains unchanged; but in spite of her modest look and downcast eyes, her tender heart is throbbing with joy, and it tells her that she has found Telemachus. If I relate the plain and simple tale of their innocent affections you will accuse me of frivolity, but you will be mistaken. Sufficient attention is not given to the effect which the first connection between man and woman is bound to produce on the future life of both. People do not see that a first impression so vivid as that of love, or the liking which takes the place of love, produces lasting effects whose influence continues till death. Works on education are crammed with wordy and unnecessary accounts of the imaginary duties of children; but there is not a word about the most important and most difficult part of their education, the crisis which forms the bridge between the child and the man. If any part of this work is really useful, it will be because I have dwelt at great length on this matter, so essential in itself and so neglected by other authors, and because I have not allowed myself to be discouraged either by false delicacy or by the difficulties of expression. The story of human nature is a fair romance. Am I to blame if it is not found elsewhere? I am trying to write the history of mankind. If my book is a romance, the fault lies with those who deprave mankind.
Emily Bronte was a very striking and lovable personality. A tall, thin, sallow, stooping, silent girl, in ill fitting, old fashioned dress, strangers saw her—they may have noted with the rare uplifting of the downcast lids the beautiful liquid eyes—and never dreamed of the fire, energy and vivacity that plain exterior hid. See her at home—upon the moors with her dogs at heel; the long limbs under the "slinky" dress move with a wild free grace. She whistles like a boy; she charms her sisters with the flash and pathos of her talk—possibly if is only a pool of tadpoles she chases about with her hand that suggests the quaint conceits, the wisdom and the humor, and, herself fearless, she delights to lure the timid Charlotte to some far-off hollow, and on their return home to tell her of some wild creature that lurked near. She loved nature; with bird and beast she had the most intimate relations, and from her walks she often came with fledgling or young rabbit in hand, talking softly to it, quite sure, too, that it understood. Never was there her parallel in anything. A deep and earnest student of German, a pianist of wonderful fire and brilliancy, a writer of marvelous promise, she did willingly and untiringly the heaviest household drudgery. Once she was bitten by a dog that she saw running by in great distress, and to which she offered water. The dog was mad. She said no word to any one, but herself burned the lacerated flesh to the bone with the red hot poker, and no one knew of it until the red scar was accidentally discovered some weeks after, and sympathetic questioning brought out this story.
The momentous meaning of this occasion impressed me deeply. I resolved to mark it by some token of recognition, which could be no other than a salute of arms. Well aware of the responsibility assumed, and of the criticisms that would follow, as the sequel proved, nothing of that kind could move me in the least. The act could be defended, if needful, by the suggestion that such a salute was not to the cause for which the flag of the Confederacy stood, but to its going down before the flag of the Union. My main reason, however, was one for which I sought no authority nor asked forgiveness. Before us in proud humiliation stood the embodiment of manhood: men whom neither toils and sufferings, nor the fact of death, nor disaster, nor hopelessness could bend from their resolve; standing before us now, thin, worn, and famished, but erect, and with eyes looking level into ours, waking memories that bound us together as no other bond;—was not such manhood to be welcomed back into a Union so tested and assured? Instructions had been given; and when the head of each division column comes opposite our group, our bugle sounds the signal and instantly our whole line from right to left, regiment by regiment in succession, gives the soldier's salutation, from the "order arms" to the old "carry"—the marching salute. Gordon at the head of the column, riding with heavy spirit and downcast face, catches the sound of shifting arms, looks up, and, taking the meaning, wheels superbly, making with himself and his horse one uplifted figure, with profound salutation as he drops the point of his sword to the boot toe; then facing to his own command, gives word for his successive brigades to pass us with the same position of the manual, honor answering honor. On our part not a sound of trumpet more, nor roll of drum; not a cheer, nor word nor whisper of vain-glorying, nor motion of man standing again at the order, but an awed stillness rather, and breath-holding, as if it were the passing of the dead!

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