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.
The taste forever refines in the study of women.
Like Melrose Abbey, large cities should especially be viewed by moonlight.
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.
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 smallest pebble in the well of truth has its peculiar meaning, and will stand when man's best monuments have passed away.
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 of power; and as the trial is intenser here, his being hath a nobler strength in heaven.
I have unlearned contempt; it is a sin that is engendered earliest in the soul, and doth beset it like a poison worm feeding on all its beauty.
A flirt is like a dipper attached to a hydrant; every one is at liberty to drink from it, but no one desires to carry it away.
I'm weary of my lonely but
And of its blasted tree,
The very lake is like my lot,
So silent constantly--
I've liv'd amid the forest gloom
Until I almost fear--
When will the thrilling voices come
My spirit thirsts to hear?
The highest triumph of art, is the truest presentation of nature.
The expressive word "quiet" defines the dress, manners, bow, and even physiognomy of every true denizen of St. James and Bond street.
How beautiful it is for a man to die
Upon the walls of Zion! to be called
Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel,
To put his armour off, and rest in heaven!
But he who never sins can little boast Compared to him who goes and sins no more!
The sin forgiven by Christ in HeavenBy man is cursed alway.
And mad ambition trumpeteth to all.
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.
How like a mounting devil in the heart rules the unreined ambition.
Blessed are the joymakers.
It is the month of June,
The month of leaves and roses,
When pleasant sights salute the eyes
And pleasant scents the noses.
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