Carpe Diem Dead Poets Society Quotes Novels & Stories

“They are your feelings and you are entitled to them. My dad reminds me that it’s okay to not be okay. But it’s not okay to give up. Life sucks from time to time. We’re talking sucks worse than a dollar blow job.” She rubbed her belly again as the teens laughed. “But the sun comes out again. Little miracles happen. Dreams change and come true. You change. Life changes. You have to go through the darkness to see a sunrise.” “Do not go gentle into the dark night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Rachel Woodson, her one goth student, quoted. “Love me some Dylan Thomas.” Evie smiled as her alarm dinged. “I have agreed to stay after today if anyone wants to stay also. If you need to ta

a quick shake of his head muted that thought. Peeling open the carriage window, the sounds of echoing bells flooded inside. They seemed to be resounding in every crevice of the streets, every fold of the pavement. Tennyson had died, and funeral ribbons and bands marked the streets. The day itself seemed to be dressed in a somber veil of fog and rain. Taking in a deep breath, the air was a smell of modern smarts: that this day marked an end to beautiful cricks and infinite daffodils. That space was replaced by steel now, by cotton smoke and decaying lungs. No more was there someone to speak of love and loss, no more was there a l**k from those poetic dreams to this bulimic reality. He was onl

Auden; You wish, sadly wishes don't be coming true no more so your sour self be stuck with my goofy ass forever. Tristan; There's nothing like forever, dummy. We all gon die soon one day. Auden; Of course I know, but at least we're still alive at the moment. This is our forever staring at us right now. Pfft. Damon; For once, Auden's sounding smart and meaning it. Is the world coming to an end already since weirder things keeps happening. Auden; Oh, fuck off man. Of course you had to ruin my golden moment with your lousy text. Fool.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,—act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

An hour later, after searching for anything to help us within books that ranged from brand new to hundreds of years old, I huffed with disappointment and decided to stretch my legs; my pale finger trailed over the spines of books, dust painting my fingertip. Once I reached the poetry section, I smiled brightly. All around me were books from Silvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickson, Robert Frost, and many others that were like my old friends. Taking a random book off the shelf, I flipped through its contents. "(...) Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." ~ Tecumseh "You enjoy poetry too?" A familiar voice spoke behind me, making my heart speed up as I jumped slightly. Turn

I crumpled in her embrace: "Sing me with the song of days past, Yola - so that we may please the ancestors, whose sacred ground we have raped." Yolanda's brown eyes flashed amber: "Then I shall sing the dead." Her melody poured forth, eviscerating, yet quiet, like a tender morsel of perfumed, candied roses, baked with apple pie: Sanctuary of autumn, a cairn of stones. Death is not proud, Death goes as a beggar dirty for alms outside the county parish, you pass by the sorrel-haired youth, and his laconic eye bespeaks a hunger, a timeless cave of wonders.

I am going nuts by trying to keep her attention on me. "You know, there's my favorite quote from Dead Poets Society…" I began blabbering. In my John Keating voice, I continued. "I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way." I took the brief second from my monologue to look at her. She isn't doing anything--which was both a relief and a panic to me. Who knows what's going on in her mind.

I smiled at Jean, pouring my adoration of the piece into every part of my body. Memento Mori which meant, in Latin, remember that you will die. That was the embodiment of Eiecrunt. Live fast and hard. Enjoy every waking moment you had because one day it could all cease to be. It showed me that I was lucky to get out of the hell I was in. Escape my fate time and time again. All because I wanted to live. Wanted to feel more. One day I would die and hopefully, my mates would be by my side. "I love it!" Adelia exclaimed beside me, her breath reeking of Alcohol. I giggled and Teagan leaned over to take hers.

Though the storm rocks our boats and the gentle wind eases our rows, our peace still ebbs and flows, because until our eyes are fixed beyond the sun, our nostrils will know less roses than our skin the thorns. In a of white and black world, let's be just enough to repel these filthy shades of grey. Karma is a poet, so please the arms that make you less a prey, because until our eyes are fixed beyond the sun, our nostrils will know less roses than our skin the thorns. So let us milk the cow while it is still dawn, for the night comes, when only the diligent will be able to admire the milk he weighed. Even if the sun rises on our evening wake, time will surely set on our wasted years, then our

“Who knows? Maybe something about how he plans to kill me.” I shudder and move on. “‘End playtime prematurely’?” Grant shrugs again, this time with an expression like, Why do you keep asking me this stuff? “What’s the French at the end mean?” “You don’t know French?” he teases me. “I took español in high school.” “It’s a line from Baudelaire. 19th Century French poet. It’s from Les Fleurs Du Mal, ‘The Flowers of Evil.’ ‘Until I see you again, my hypocrite reader, my own kind, my brother.’”