Behold! thou hast one more chance! Strive for immortal glory!
God washes the eyes by tears unil they can behold the invisible land where tears shall come no more.
Prayer is a long rope with a strong hold.
To be really great in little things, to be truly noble and heroic in the insipid details of everyday life, is a virtue so rare as to be worthy of canonization.
Strange, what brings these past things so vividly back to us, sometimes!
In all ranks of life the human heart yearns for the beautiful; and the beautiful things that God makes are his gift to all alike.
...the heart has no tears to give,--it drops only blood, bleeding itself away in silence.
Now, if the principle of toleration were once admitted into classical education - if it were admitted that the great object is to read and enjoy a language, and the stress of the teaching were placed on the few things absolutely essential to this result, if the tortoise were allowed time to creep, and the bird permitted to fly, and the fish to swim, towards the enchanted and divine sources of Helicon - all might in their own way arrive there, and rejoice in its flowers, its beauty, and its coolness.
In the old times, women did not get their lives written, though I don't doubt many of them were much better worth writing than the men's.
Where painting is weakest, namely, in the expression of the highest moral and spiritual ideas, there music is sublimely strong.
Greek is the morning land of languages, and has the freshness of early dew in it which will never exhale.
'Who was your mother?' 'Never had none!' said the child, with another grin. 'Never had any mother? What do you mean? Where were you born?' 'Never was born!' 'Do you know who made you?' 'Nobody, as I knows on,' said the child, with a short laugh. . . . 'I 'spect I grow'd.'
The beautiful must ever rest in the arms of the sublime. The gentle needs the strong to sustain it, as much as the rock-flowers need rocks to grow on, or the ivy the rugged wall which it embraces.
I 'spect I growed. Don't think nobody never made me.
Cause I's wicked, - I is. I's mighty wicked, anyhow, I can't help it.
There are in this world blessed souls, whose sorrows all spring up into joys for others; whose earthly hopes, laid in the grave with many tears, are the seed from which spring healing flowers and balm for the desolate and the distressed.
Care and labor are as much correlated to human existence as shadow is to light.
God has always been to me not so much like a father as like a dear and tender mother.
Everyone confesses in the abstract that exertion which brings out all the powers of body and mind is the best thing for us all; but practically most people do all they can to get rid of it, and as a general rule nobody does much more than circumstances drive them to do.
I don't know as I am fit for anything and I have thought that I could wish to die young and let the remembrance of me and my faults perish in the grave rather than live, as I fear I do, a trouble to everyone.... Sometimes I could not sleep and have groaned and cried till midnight.
The ship, built on one element, but designed to have its life in another, seemed an image of the soul, formed and fashioned with many a weary hammer-stroke in this life, but finding its true element only when it sails out into the ocean of eternity.
Perhaps it is impossible for a person who does no good to do no harm.
Can anybody tell what sorrows are locked up with our best affections, or what pain may be associated with every pleasure?
Humankind above all is lazy.
No one is so thoroughly superstitious as the godless man. Life and death to him are haunted grounds, filled with goblin forms of vague and shadowy dread.
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