Never is true love blind, but rather brings an added light.
All the great blessings of my life are present in my thoughts today
Sometimes, I think the things we see are shadows of the things to be; that what we plan we build
You may wear your virtues as a crown,
As you walk through life serenely,
And grace your simple rustic gown
With a beauty more than queenly.
Though only one for you shall care,
One only speak your praises;
And you never wear in your shining hair,
A richer flower than daisies.
Only yield when you must, never "give up the ship," but fight on to the last "with a stiff upper lip!
Ah, there are moments for us here, when, seeing
Life's inequalities, and woe, and care,
The burdens laid upon our mortal being
Seem heavier than the human heart can bear.
Come up, April, though the valley, / In your robes of beauty drest, / Come and wake your flowery children / From their wintry beds of rest ...
Women are only told that they resemble angels when they are young and beautiful; consequently, it is their persons, not their virtues, that procure them homage.
Give plenty of what is given to you, And listen to pity's call. Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small.
I know not which I love the most, Nor which the comeliest shows, The timid, bashful violet Or the royal-hearted rose: The pansy in purple dress, The pink with cheek of red, Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs, Like a bashful maid her head.
And never since harvests were ripened, / Or laborers born, / Have men gathered figs of the thistle, / Or grapes of the thorn!
Father, perfect my trust;Let my spirit feel in death,That her feet are firmly setOn the rock of a living faith!
And though hard be the task, keep a stiff upper lip.
For little children everywhere A joyous season still we make; We bring our precious gifts to them, Even for the dear child Jesus' sake.
I think true love is never blind, / But rather brings an added light; / An inner vision quick to find / The beauties hid from common sight.
Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of green, / Where you lie in the sun's embrace; / And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean / To touch your dimpled face ...
Books were put out, and 'had a run,' / Like coinage from the mint; / But which could fill the place of one, / That one they wouldn't print?
O that one unguarded moment! / Were it mine to live again, / All the strength of its temptation / Would appeal to me in vain.
Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?
But alas for the dreams that round us play! / For the plans of mortal making! / And alas for the false and fickle day / That looked so fair at waking!
For of all hard things to bear and grin, / The hardest is knowing you're taken in.
But whenever she thanks the givers for favors great and small, she thinks of the good little sister who gave her more than they all.
Death comes not to the living soul, nor age to the living heart.
For those roses bright, oh, those roses bright!
I have twined them in my sister's locks
That are hid in the dust from sight.
One sweetly solemn thought, comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home today, than I ever have been before.
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