A healthful hunger for a great idea is the beauty and blessedness of life.
I have lived to thank God that all my prayers have not been answered.
Man is the miracle in nature. God Is the One Miracle to man.
There is but halting for the wearied foot;
The better way is hidden. Faith hath failed;
One stronger far than reason mastered her.
It is not reason makes faith hard, but life.
I am glad to think I am not bound to make the world go right, but only to discover and to do, with cheerful heart, the work that God appoints.
When sparrows build and the leaves break forth My old sorrow wakes and cries.
The moon looks upon many night flowers; the night flowers see but one moon.
I don't want to die. But I want to be dead.
Quoth the Ocean, "Dawn! O fairest, clearest, Touch me with thy golden fingers bland; For I have no smile till thou appearest For the lovely land.
Man is the miracle in nature. God Is the One Miracle to man. Behold, "There is a God," thou sayest. Thou sayest well: In that thou sayest all. To Be is more Of wonderful, than being, to have wrought, Or reigned, or rested.
Children bring their own love with them when they come.
O fateful flower beside the rill- The Daffodil, the daffodil!
Such a slender moon, going up and up, Waxing so fast from night to night, And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, And hold to my two lips life's best of wine.
It is not reason which makes faith hard, but life.
And bitter waxed the fray; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way.
How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.
And old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain.
Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come was there Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, When childish thoughts, like flowers would drift away.
It is a comely fashion to be glad; Joy is the grace we say to God.
From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is love
To long for, pureness to desire, a mount
Of consecration it were good to scale.
Youth! youth! how buoyant are thy hopes! they turn, like marigolds, toward the sunny side.
A birthday:-and now a day that rose
With much of hope, with meaning rife-
A thoughtful day from dawn to close:
The middle day of human life.
The moon is bleached as white as wool,
And just dropping under;
Every star is gone but three,
And they hang far asunder,--
There's a sea-ghost all in gray,
A tall shape of wonder!
For hearts where wakened love doth lurk,
How fine, how blest a thing is work!
For work does good when reasons fail.
Work is its own best earthly meed,
Else have we none more than the sea-born throng
Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar.
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