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.
The moon looks upon many night flowers; the night flowers see but one moon.
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.
we wish for more in life rather than more of it.
Tears are the showers that fertilize this world.
I have lived life long enough to thank God that all my prayers have not been answered
Man is the miracle in nature. God Is the One Miracle to man.
I don't want to die. But I want to be dead.
Yet there are some resting-places, / Life's untroubled interludes; / Times when neither past nor future / On the soul's deep calm intrudes.
When sparrows build and the leaves break forth My old sorrow wakes and cries.
When I remember something which I had,
But which is gone, and I must do without,
I sometimes wonder how I can be glad,
Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout;
It makes me sigh to think on it,--but yet
My days will not be better days, should I forget.
Youth! youth! how buoyant are thy hopes! they turn, like marigolds, toward the sunny side.
I opened the doors of my heart.
There was music within and a song,
And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it long.
I opened the doors of my heart. And behold,
There was music that played itself out in aeolian notes:
Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals tolled.
What change has made the pastures sweet
And reached the daisies at my feet,
And cloud that wears a golden hem?
This lovely world, the hills, the sward--
They all look fresh, as if our Lord
But yesterday had finished them.
I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster,
Nor long summer bide so late;
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster,
For some things are ill to wait.
I am athirst for God, the living God.
Children bring their own love with them when they come.
It is not reason which makes faith hard, but life.
O sleep, we are beholden to thee, sleep;
Thou bearest angels to us in the night,
Saints out of heaven with palms.
Seen by thy light
Sorrow is some old tale that goeth not deep;
Love is a pouting child.
O sleep! O sleep!
Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep,
Now I have nothing left, thy healing hand
Over the lids that crave thy visits bland,
Thou kind, thou comforting one.
For I have seen his face, as I desired,
And all my story is done.
O, I am tired.
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.
How short our happy days appear!
How long the sorrowful!
How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.
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.
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