Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it.
Worldly faces never look so worldly as at a funeral.
Your trouble's easy borne when everybody gives it a lift for you.
There is no general doctrine which is not capable of eating out our morality if unchecked by the deep-seated habit of direct fellow-feeling with individual fellow-men.
Human feeling is like the mighty rivers that bless the earth: it does not wait for beauty — it flows with resistless force and brings beauty with it.
Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love.
It is the moment when our resolution seems about to become irrevocable--when the fatal iron gates are about to close upon us--that tests our strength. Then, after hours of clear reasoning and firm conviction, we snatch at any sophistry that will nullify our long struggles, and bring us the defeat that we love better than victory.
It is not true that love makes all things easy; it makes us choose what is difficult.
There is a chill air surrounding those who are down in the world, and people are glad to get away from them, as from a cold room.
It is hard to believe long together that anything is "worth while," unless there is some eye to kindle in common with our own, some brief word uttered now and then to imply that what is infinitely precious to us is precious alike to another mind.
I like not only to be loved, but also to be told I am loved.
I don't see how a man is to be good for much unless he has some one woman to love him dearly.
We hand folks over to God's mercy, and show none ourselves.
Justice is like the kingdom of God--it is not without us as a fact, it is within us as a great yearning.
We are on a perilous margin when we begin to look passively at our future selves, and see our own figures led with dull consent into insipid misdoing and shabby achievement.
We all remember epochs in our experience when some dear expectation dies, or some new motive is born.
But what is opportunity to the man who can't use it?
A human life, I think, should be well rooted in some spot of a native land, where it may get the love of tender kinship for the face of earth, for the labors men go forth to, for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that early home a familiar, unmistakable difference amidst the future widening of knowledge.
For pain must enter into its glorified life of memory before it can turn into compassion.
These gems have life in them: their colors speak, say what words fail of.
Marriage, which has been the bourne of so many narratives, is still a great beginning, as it was to Adam and Eve, who kept their honey-moon in Eden, but had their first little one among the thorns and thistles of the wilderness. It is still the beginning of the home epic - the gradual conquest or irremediable loss of that complete union which make the advancing years a climax, and age the harvest of sweet memories in common.
The tale of the Divine Pity was never yet believed from lips that were not felt to be moved by human pity.
If the past is not to bind us, where can duty lie? We should have no law but the inclination of the moment.
Young love-making--that gossamer web! Even the points it clings to--the things whence its subtle interlacings are swung--are scarcely perceptible: momentary touches of finger-tips, meetings of rays from blue and dark orbs, unfinished phrases, lightest changes of cheek and lip, faintest tremors. The web itself is made of spontaneous beliefs and indefinable joys, yearnings of one life towards another, visions of completeness, indefinite trust.
The thing we look forward to often comes to pass, but never precisely in the way we have imagined to ourselves.
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