I must be dreaming. Bring that sweet ass over here and I'll show you what God made women and well-hung Scotsmen for.
Then I shall bid thee goodnight, my dear. Sweet pixies watch over the dusty moonlight of your dreams, Jessameine.
Say what you will about the sweet miracle of unquestioning faith, I consider a capacity for it terrifying and absolutely vile.
That deep silence has a melody of its own, a sweetness unknown amid the harsh discords of the world's sounds.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect.
But maybe that's what the dead do. They stay. They linger. Benign and sweet and painful. They don't need us. They echo all by themselves.
She had had sweet dreams, which possibly arose from the fact that her little bed was very white.
Awww, that's sweet. Nothing says ‘I love you’ like a well-made implement of pain.
If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars are a-bloom with flowers...
Oh, those warm days of stumbling words; blinded eyes, embracing in sweet slow dances and sipping courage from a bottle for sneaking kisses.
God, you smell nice," he whispered. "I've missed that smell. I've missed everything about you, little Ann.
The constrained lives of his characters made me wonder how my own existence might appear in his hands.
We awoke to a fabulation of ice, the sun shining like a weapon, light rocketing off every surface except the surfaces of the Army's clean streets and walks.
I was irritated by the way he conflated his own shifting needs with an impersonal destiny. I want it, therefore...it's in the stars!
How is it possible you have caught me off guard, he seemed to ask. Exactly where have I miscalculated the velocities, how have I misjudged the vectors?
What a psalm the storm was singing, and how fresh the smell of the washed earth and leaves, and how sweet the still small voices of the storm!
I'm not perfect. Remember that, and try to forgive me when I fail you.
I think that hate is a feeling that can only exist where there is no understanding.
I inhale loneliness like it is the sweet smell of virgin earth conquered by fiery rain drops. Within me, I'm a thousand others.
You're a marshmallow. Soft and sweet and when you get heated up you go all gooey and delicious."-
Such actions are beyond praise: it is the perfume of such sweet and noble human sympathy that makes this wild beasts' cage a world habitable for men.
