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Recently Added War Quotes

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  • 1

    New!

    A Favorite of 1 user

    Don't you dare look out your window, darling, everything's on fire. The war outside our door keeps raging on. Hold on to this lullaby, even when the music's gone.

    A few hours ago by MasterRat  ID#:611635
  • 2

    New!

    A Favorite of 1 user

    Copper plated, nailed together, buffeted by ocean weather, stands the queen of exiles and our mother she may be. Hollow breasted, broken hearted, watching for her dear departed, for her children cast upon the sea. At her back the great idealic land of justice for for exilic peoples ponders making justice private property. Darling, never dream another woman might have been your mother, someday you may be a refugee.

    A few hours ago by MasterRat  ID#:611633
  • 3

    A Favorite of 1 user

    War will make some leaders great, but makes their people suffer.

    A few days ago by brad_361  ID#:610463
  • 4

    A Favorite of 1 user

    War is when the Young and Stupid are tricked by the old and bitterinto killing eachother.

    Posted by Danzilla  ID#:610010
  • 5

    A Favorite of 6 users

    The disregard of the lives of fellow human beings will be the downfall of all mankind

    Posted by Linda_Beth  ID#:609528
  • 6

    A Favorite of 5 users

    I can think of nothing more horrible than war, and nothing more wonderful than peace.

    Posted by Linda_Beth  ID#:607457
  • 7

    A Favorite of 2 users

    He always said that he'd be home when this whole thing was over
    He'd be flyin in to Houston
    or comin in to Dover.

    Posted by Linda_Beth  ID#:606478
  • 8

    A Favorite of 1 user

    Better to die for a won battle, than live a lost war.

    Posted by Vasili  ID#:600382
  • 9

    A Favorite of 5 users

    Mercy

    Is a sign of weakness.



    Love

    Is a sign of weakness.



    Pity

    Is a sign of weakness.



    Believing you are weak

    Is a sign of weakness.

    Posted by Anonymous  ID#:600381
  • 10

    A Favorite of 1 user

    "How Fine, How Fresh the Roses

    Were..."



    Somewhere, at some time, long, long ago I read a poem. I

    forgot it soon, but the first line remained in my memory:



    "How Fine, How Fresh the Roses Were..."



    It is winter now: frost has powdered the window panes;

    in the dark room a single candle burns. I am sitting, cowering

    in the corner, and all the time there rings and rings in my head;



    "How Fine, How Fresh the Roses Were..."



    And I see myself before the low window of a suburban

    Russian house. The summer evening is quietly fading and

    melting away into the night; in the warm air there is a scent of

    mignonette and lime; and at the window, leaning on her

    straightened arm and bending her head on her shoulder, a girl

    is sitting, silently and fixedly gazing at the sky, as if awaiting

    the appearance of the first stars. How simply inspired are the

    thoughtful eyes, how untouchingly innocent the parted,

    enquiring lips, how evenly her breast, still undeveloped, is

    breathing, still untroubled; how pure and tender the contour

    of her youthful face. I dare not begin to speak with her, but

    how dear she is to me, how my heart is beating-



    "How Fine, How Fresh the Roses Were..."



    But the room gets darker and darker. The burning candle

    splutters; fleeting shadows flicker over the low ceiling; the

    frost is angrily creaking behind the wall, and I dream of a dull,

    old man's whisper:



    "How Fine, How Fresh the Roses Were..."



    Other images rise before me. I hear the gay noise of country

    family life. Two little fairheads, leaning one against the

    other, are looking cheekily at me with bright little eyes;

    crimson cheeks are trembling with suppressed laughter; hands

    have been affectionately interlocked; in interuption [of each

    other] young kindly voices sound, and, somewhat further

    off, in the depths of the cosy room, other hands, also young,

    with nimble fingers are running over the keys of a piano, past

    its prime, and the Lanner waltz cannot drown the grumbling of

    the patriarchal samovar:



    "How Fine, How Fresh the Roses Were..."



    The candle fails and dies away. Who is it coughing there so

    hoarsely and dully? Curling himself into a round bundle,

    the old dog, my sole companion, presses himself against my

    feet and shivers. I feel chilly... And they have all died...

    died...



    "How Fine, How Fresh the Roses Were..."

    Posted by Vasili  ID#:600380
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