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Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.
--
line 9.

 

William Collins

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Poor soul, he has always seemed to me an extremely weak creature, and lamentable much more than admirable. Weak in genius, weak in character (for these two always go together); a poor thin, spasmodic, hectic, shrill and pallid being; -- one of those unfortunates, of whom I often speak, to whom the 'talent of silence', first of all, has been denied. The speech of such is never good for much. Poor Shelley, there is something void and Hades-like in the whole inner-world of him; his universe is all vacant azure, hung with a few frosty mournful if beautiful stars; the very voice of him (his style &c), shrill, shrieky, to my ear has too much of the ghost!

 

Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

"I used to think being a good warrior meant not caring. About anything, myself especially. I took every risk i could. I flung myself in the path of demons. I think I gave Alec a complex about what kind of fighter he was, just because he wanted to live. I alway thought love made you stupid. Made you weak. A bad shadowhunter. To love is to destroy. I believed that. And then I met you. You were a mundane. Weak. Not a fighter. Never trained. And then I saw how much you loved your mother, loved Simon, and how you'd walk into hell to save them.------ Love didn't make you weak, it made you stronger than anyone I'd ever met. And I realized I was the one who was weak."

 

Cassandra Clare

 

Quiet, the Unicorn,
In contemplation stilled,
With acceptance filled;
Quiet, save for his horn;
Alive in his horn;
Horizontally,
In captivity;
Perpendicularly,
Free.

 

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

 

Some love to roam o’er the dark sea’s foam,
Where the shrill winds whistle free.

 

Charles Mackay

 

Let those whose Hearts and Hands are strong
Tell eager Tales of mighty Deeds;
Enough if my sequestered song
To hush'd and twilight Gardens leads!

Clear Waters, drawn from secret Wells
Perchance may fevered Lips assuage;
The Tales an elder Pilgrim tells
To such as go on Pilgrimage.

Such the soft Path my Words would trace,
Thus with the moving Waters move;
So leave, across the Ocean's Face,
A glimmering Stair to Hope and Love.

 

A. C. Benson