Peace is the first thing the angels sang.
And help us, this and every day, to live more nearly as we pray.
Once you make up your mind never to stand waiting and hesitating when your conscience tells you what you ought to do, and you have got the key to every blessing that a sinner can reasonably hope for.
As fire kindled by fire, so is the poet's mind kindled by contact with a brother poet.
When the shore is won at last, Who will count the billow past?
Give us grace to listen well.
Abide with me from morn to eve, / For without Thee I cannot live: / Abide with me when night is nigh. / For without Thee I dare not die.
Blest are the pure in heart, for they shall see our God. The secret of the Lord is theirs; Their soul is Christ's abode.
Thou art the Sun of other days.
They shine by giving back the rays.
Sweet is the smile of home; the mutual look when hearts are of each other sure.
Why should we faint and fear to live alone,Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die?Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own,Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh.
New every morning is the love Our waking and uprising prove, Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life and power and thought.
Soft as Memnon's harp at morning, To the inward ear devout, Touched by light, with heavenly warning Your transporting chords ring out. Every leaf in every nook, Every wave in every brook, Chanting with a solemn voice Minds us of our better choice.
The trivial round, the common task,Would furnish all we ought to ask.
Pride of the dewy morning, The swain's experienced eye From thee takes timely warning. Nor trusts the gorgeous sky.
The deeds we do, the words we say,Into still air they seem to fleet;We count them ever past;But they shall last -In the dread judgment theyAnd we shall meet.
Sprinkled along the waste of years Full many a soft green isle appears: Pause where we may upon the desert road, Some shelter is in sight, some sacred safe abode.
God hath sworn to lift on high Who sinks himself by true humility.
If the Church of England were to fail, it would be found in my parish
Look in, and see Christ's chosen saint In triumph wear his Christ-like chain; No fear lest he should swerve or faint; "His life is Christ, his death is gain.
Sweet is the infant's waking smile, And sweet the old man's rest-- But middle age by no fond wile, No soothing calm is blest.
When you find yourself overpowered, as it were, by melancholy, the best way is to go out and do something.
The watchful mother tarries nigh, though sleep has closed her infants eyes.
Sun of my soul! Thou Saviour dear, It is not night if Thou be near.
Sun of my soul, thou Savior dear, It is not night if thou be near. Oh, may no earthborn cloud arise To hide thee from thy servant's eyes.
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