She had brillant red hair, like honey and roses and the sun all together.
All my laurels you have riven away, and my roses; yet in spite of you, there is one crown I bear away with me… One thing without stain, unspotted from the world, in spite of doom mine own! And that is… my white plume.
I quite agree with you. The sun is not kind. God should use a rose amber spot.
A story must be told in such a way that it constitutes help in itself. My grandfather was lame. Once they asked him to tell a story about his teacher. And he related how the holy Baal Shem used to hop and dance while he prayed. My grandfather rose as he spoke, and he was so swept away by his story that he himself began to hop and dance to show how the master had done. From that hour he was cured of his lameness. That’s how to tell a story.