Big words do not smite like war-clubs, Boastful breath is not a bow-string, Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, Deeds are better things than words are, Actions mightier than boastings.
I love thee, as the good love heaven.
The country is lyric, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.
No action, whether foul or fair, Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere A record, written by fingers ghostly, As a blessing or a curse, and mostly In the greater weakness or greater strength Of the acts which follow it.
The natural alone is permanent.
The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if newborn; There was nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet.
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.
Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to win victories by turning somersets in the air.
The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from, the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.
There is nothing perfectly secure but poverty.
How like they are to human things!
The world loves a spice of wickedness.
We waste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into potions which, after all, do not immortalize, but only intoxicate.
Love is a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than animate faith and love, as flowers are the animate springtide.
God is not dead; nor doth He sleep; ... The wrong shall fail, The right prevail, With peace on earth, good will to men.
The emigrant's way o'er the western desert is mark'd by Camp-fires long consum'd and bones that bleach in the sunshine.
A boy's will is the wind's will.
Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse.
"Do not fear! Heaven is as near," He said, "by water as by land!"
Among the noblest in the land - Though man may count himself the least - That man I honor and revere, Who without favor, without fear, In the great city dares to stand, The friend of every friendless beast.
The everyday cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time, giving its pendulum a true vibration and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon its wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move the clock stands still.
Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.
A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round, If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.
These stars of earth, these golden flowers.
The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright. The house is full of life and light.
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