When Time is spent, Eternity begins.
When love is at its best, one loves
So much that he cannot forget.
I shall be found with 'Indians' engraved on my brain when I am dead. A fire has been kindled within me, which will never go out.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
The woman who creates and sustains a home, and under whose hands children grow up to be strong and pure men and women, is a creator second only to God.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
One of Dr. Johnson's ingredients of happiness was, "A little less time than you want." That means always to have so many things you want to see, to have, and to do, that no day is quite long enough for all you think you would like to get done before you go to bed.
But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years of Heaven with all earth's little pain Make Good Together there we can begin again, In babyhood.
There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
Who longest wait of all surely wins.
Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.
O bees, sweet bees!" I said; "that nearest field Is shining white with fragrant immortelles Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells.
Ah, March! we know thou art Kind-hearted,
spite of ugly looks and threats,
And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!
If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.
On the king's gate the moss grew gray;The king came not. They called him deadAnd made his eldest son one daySlave in his father's stead.
O month when they who love must love and wed.
O proudly name their names who bravely sail| To seek brave lost in Arctic snows and seas!
Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last.
Now and then one sees a face which has kept its smile pure and undefiled. Such a smile transfigures; such a smile, if the artful but know it, is the greatest weapon a face can have.
Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.
Most men call fretting a minor fault, a foible, and not a vice. There is no vice except drunkenness which can so utterly destroy the peace, the happiness of a hoe.
The new is older than the old;
And newest friend is oldest friend in this:
That, waiting him, we longest grieved to miss
One thing we sought.
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