It is clear that the American people are weary of war. However, Assad gassing his own people is an issue of our national security, regional stability and global security.
An exile, ill in heart and frame,-- A wanderer, weary of the way;-- A stranger, without love's sweet claim On any heart, go where I may!
I am absolutely convinced that meaninglessness does not come from being weary of pain; meaninglessness comes from being weary of pleasure. And that is why we find ourselves emptied of meaning with our pantries still full.
. . . weary of k knowing too much and understanding too little.
Let ignorance reproduce itself until it is weary of its own offspring.
Though we often see life troughs as the universe's conspiracy to ruin us, they're actually our own true nature inviting us to lay down our weary heads.
Lincoln-sad, patient, kindly Lincoln, who after bearing upon his weary shoulders for four years a greater burden than that borne by any other man of the nineteenth century laid down his life for the people whom living he had served as well-built upon his early study of the Bible.
Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.
Are you looking for answers, to questions under the stars? If along the way you are growing weary, You can rest with me until a brighter day It's okay
Unintelligent persons are like weeds that thrive in good ground; they love to be amused in proportion to the degree in which they weary themselves.
We find no rest for our weary bones unless we cling to the word of grace.
Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and ill at ease, and my fingers wandered idly over the noisy keys. It seemed the harmonious echo from our discordant life.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
I am too weary to listen, too angry to hear.
That road to V-E Day was hard and long, and traveled by weary and valiant men. And history will always record where that road began. It began here, with the first footprints on the beaches of Normandy.
Not thine the sorrow, but ours, sainted soul! Thou hast indeed entered into the promised land, while we are yet on the march. To us remain the rocking of the deep, the storm upon the land, days of duty and nights of watching; but thou are sphered high above all darkness and fear, beyond all sorrow and weariness. Rest, oh, weary heart!
What a weary time those years were -- to have the desire and the need to live but not the ability.
In a cool solitude of trees Where leaves and birds a music spin, Mind that was weary is at ease, New rhythms in the soul begin.
No longer mere earthbeings and planetbeings are we, but bright children of the stars! And together we shall dance in and out of ten billion years, celebrating the gift of consciousness until the stars themselves grow cold and weary, and our thoughts turn again to the beginning.
All hope is prayer; who calls it hope no more, Sends prayer footsore forth over weary wastes, While he who calls it prayer, gives wings to hope.