Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all.
When Christ ascended Triumphantly from star to star He left the gates of Heaven ajar.
Ambition is so powerful a passion in the human breast, that however high we reach we are never satisfied.
Art is the child of Nature.
The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.
We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.
It is a beautiful trait in the lover's character, that they think no evil of the object loved.
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
The student has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy, within the four walls of his library. He has in his books the ruins of an antique world and the glories of a modern one.
For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.
Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, let us be merciful as well as just
In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!
Joy, temperance, and repose, slam the door on the doctor's nose.
All that is best in the great poets of all countries is not what is national in them, but what is universal.
In the lives of the saddest of us, there are bright days like this, when we feel as if we could take the great world in our arms and kiss it. Then come the gloomy hours, when the fire will neither burn on our hearths nor in our hearts; and all without and within is dismal, cold, and dark. Believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows, which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.
Whatever hath been written shall remain, Nor be erased nor written o'er again; The unwritten only still belongs to thee: Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be.
Age is opportunity no less than youth itself.
Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.
How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams with its illusions, aspirations, dreams! Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!
A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.
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.
Your education begins where what is called your education is over. Your fate is but the common lot of all.
Love gives itself; it is not bought.
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