All people have their blind side-their superstitions.
Not childhood alone, but the young man till thirty, never feels practically that he is mortal.
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.
A child's nature is too serious a thing to admit of its being regarded as a mere appendage to another being.
There was a little man, and he had a little soul; And he said, Little Soul, let us try, try, try!
Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.
Nothing to me is more distasteful than that entire complacency and satisfaction which beam in the countenances of a new married couple; in that of the lady particularly; it tells you that her lot is disposed of in this world; that you can have no hopes for her.
The good things of life are not to be had singly, but come to us with a mixture; like a school-boy's holiday, with a task affixed to the tail of it.
We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been.
Milton almost requires a solemn service of music to be played before you enter upon him. But he brings his music, to which who listen had need bring docile thoughts and purged ears.
Much depends upon when and where you read a book. In the five or six impatient minutes before the dinner is quite ready, who would think of taking up the Faerie Queen for a stopgap, or a volume of Bishop Andrews's Sermons?
In the Negro countenance you will often meet with strong traits of benignity. I have felt yearnings of tenderness towards some of these faces.
A babe is fed with milk and praise.
Books think for me. I can read anything which I call a book.
In the indications of female poverty there can be no disguise. No woman dresses below herself from caprice.
The beggar wears all colors fearing none.
The Muses were dumb while Apollo lectured.
What a dead thing is a clock, with its ponderous embowelments of lead and brass, its pert or solemn dullness of communication, compared with the simple altar-like structure and silent heart-language of the old sundials! It stood as the garden god of Christian gardens. Why is it almost everywhere vanished? If its business-use be superseded by more elaborate inventions, its moral uses, its beauty, might have pleaded for its continuance.
If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick-bed. How the patient lords it there!
A flow'ret crushed in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying; Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying
Is it a stale remark to say that I have constantly found the interest excited at a playhouse to bear an exact inverse proportion to the price paid for admission?
Go where glory waits thee! But while fame elates thee, Oh, still remember me!
By myself walking, To myself talking.
Some people have a knack of putting upon you gifts of no real value, to engage you to substantial gratitude. We thank them for nothing.
Anything awful makes me laugh. I misbehaved once at a funeral.
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