Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.
If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
Look not mournfully into the past, it comes not back again. Wisely improve the present, it is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.
Into each life some rain must fall.
Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.
It has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and drenched by the rain of life.
Live up to the best that is in you: Live noble lives, as you all may, in whatever condition you may find yourselves.
It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun.
Quotes about Life Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art; to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
There is no death! What seems so is transition; this life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life elysian, whose portal we call Death.
Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!
Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.
That was the first sound in the song of love! Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate. We hear The voice prophetic, and are not alone.
Ah, how skillful grows the hand That obeyeth Love's command! It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain, And he who followeth Love's behest Far excelleth all the rest!
There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.
Learn to labour and to wait.
Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares!
How can I tell the signals and the signs By which one heart another heart divines? How can I tell the many thousand ways By which it keeps the secret it betrays?
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!
Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.
Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, As in a foundering ship.
O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!
Does not all the blood within me Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, As the springs to meet the sunshine.
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