Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
The dawn is not distant, nor is the night starless; love is eternal.
So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest.
Stay, stay at home, my heart and rest; Home-keeping hearts are the happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care; To stay at home is best.
Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
Where'er a noble deed is wrought, Where'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To higher levels rise.
The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.
The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full of flowers.
I cannot believe any man can be perfectly well in body, who has much labor of the mind to perform.
If a woman shows too often the Medusa's head, she must not be astonished if her lover is turned into stone.
All your strength in is your union. All your danger is in discord. Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together.
Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.
Music is the universal language of mankind.
He looks the whole world in the face for he owes not any man.
The Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and consequence are inseparable and inevitable.
To be infatuated with the power of one's own intellect is an accident which seldom happens but to those who are remarkable for the want of intellectual power. Whenever Nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.
Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.
The human voice is the organ of the soul.
Tomorrow is the mysterious, unknown guest.
The things that have been and shall be no more, The things that are, and that hereafter shall be, The things that might have been, and yet were not, The fading twilight of joys departed.
Every man has his secret sorrows.
A thought often makes us hotter than a fire.
A young critic is like a boy with a gun; he fires at every living thing he sees. He thinks only of his own skill, not of the pain he is giving.
Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.
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