Wondrous strong are the spells of fiction.
More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish.
Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts.
O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on!
Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha the Beloved, In the glory of the sunset, In the purple mists of evening, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin, To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the Land of the Hereafter!
Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life.
A man must be of a very quiet and happy nature, who can long endure the country; and, moreover, very well contented with his own insignificant person.
O thou sculptor, painter, poet! Take this lesson to thy heart: That is best which lieth nearest; Shape from that thy work of art.
One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm For the country folk to be up and to arm.
To be left alone, and face to face with my own crime, had been just retribution.
One half the world must sweat and groan that the other half may dream.
See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!
The men that women marry, And why they marry them, will always be A marvel and a mystery to the world.
God's voice was not in the earthquake, Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes.
Silence is a great peacemaker.
Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath.
I know not how it is, but during a voyage I collect books as a ship does barnacles.
Many critics are like woodpeckers, who, instead of enjoying the fruit and shadow of a tree, hop incessantly around the trunk, pecking holes in the bark to discover some little worm or other.
A coquette is a young lady of more beauty than sense, more accomplishments than learning, more charms not person than graces of mind, more admirers than friends, mole fools than wise men for attendants.
Even cities have their graves!
Well I know the secret places, And the nests in hedge and tree; At what doors are friendly faces, In what hearts are thoughts of me.
A solid man of Boston; A comfortable man with dividends, And the first salmon and the first green peas.
Bell, thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party To the church doth hie! Bell, thou soundest solemnly, When, on Sabbath morning, Fields deserted lie!
Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.
At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, That nothing with God can be accidental.
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