Gratitude is not only the memory but the homage of the heart- rendered to God for his goodness.
He who binds
His soul to knowledge, steals the key of heaven.
A lamp is lit in woman's eye; that souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by.
T is the work of many a dark hour, many a prayer, to bring the heart back from an infant gone.
One gets, sensitive about losing mornings after getting a little used to them with living in a country. Each one of these endlessly varied daybreaks is an opera but once performed.
Youth is beautiful; its friendship is precious; the intercourse with it is a purifying release from the worn and stained harness of older life.
And mad ambition trumpeteth to all.
The sin forgiven by Christ in HeavenBy man is cursed alway.
But he who never sins can little boast Compared to him who goes and sins no more!
The smallest pebble in the well of truth has its peculiar meaning, and will stand when man's best monuments have passed away.
Wisdom, sits alone, topmost in heaven: she is its light, its God; and in the heart of man she sits as high, though groveling minds forget her oftentimes, seeing but this world's idols.
The taste forever refines in the study of women.
The children of the poor are so apt to look as if the rich would have been over-blest with such! Alas for the angel capabilities, interrupted so soon with care, and with after life so sadly unfulfilled.
The perfect world, by Adam trod,
Was the first temple--built by God--
His fiat laid the corner stone,
And heaved its pillars, one by one.
The soul of man createth its own destiny.
Vulgarity is more obvious in satin than in homespun.
One lamp — thy mother’s love — amid the stars Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and before The throne of God, burn through eternity - Holy — as it was lit and lent thee here.
If there is anything that keeps the mind open to angel visits, and repels the ministry of ill, it is human love.
Your love in a cottage is hungry,
Your vine is a nest for flies-
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,
And simplicity talks of pies!
You lie down to your shady slumber
And wake with a bug in your ear,
And your damsel that walks in the morning
Is shod like a mountaineer.
It is the month of June,
The month of leaves and roses,
When pleasant sights salute the eyes
And pleasant scents the noses.
How like a mounting devil in the heart rules the unreined ambition.
Blessed are the joymakers.
Flirtation is a circulating library, in which we seldom ask twice for the same volume.
Temptation hath a music for all ears.
The position you hold and the work you are now doing.
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