A babe is fed with milk and praise.
In the indications of female poverty there can be no disguise. No woman dresses below herself from caprice.
In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from the binding.
Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.
As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, So deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee. As still to the star of its worship, though clouded, The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea, So dark when I roam in this wintry world shrouded, The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee.
To sigh, yet feel no pain; To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.
Oh stay! oh stay! Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh 't is pain To break its links so soon.
The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion.
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years,- One minute of heaven is worth them all.
He might have proved a useful adjunct, if not an ornament to society.
When I consider how little of a rarity children are -- that every street and blind alley swarms with them -- that the poorest people commonly have them in most abundance -- that there are few marriages that are not blest with at least one of these bargains -- how often they turn out ill, and defeat the fond hopes of their parents, taking to vicious courses, which end in poverty, disgrace, the gallows, etc. -- I cannot for my life tell what cause for pride there can possibly be in having them.
Nothing puzzles me more than time and space; and yet nothing troubles me less, as I never think about them.
How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a man's self to himself! Supreme selfishness is inculcated upon him as his only duty.
Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress.
Go where glory waits thee! But while fame elates thee, Oh, still remember me!
Antiquity! thou wondrous charm, what art thou? that being nothing art everything? When thou wert, thou wert not antiquity - then thou wert nothing, but hadst a remoter antiquity, as thou calledst it, to look back to with blind veneration; thou thyself being to thyself flat, jejune, modern! What mystery lurks in this retroversion? or what half Januses are we, that cannot look forward with the same idolatry with which we for ever revert! The mighty future is as nothing, being everything! the past is everything, being nothing!
And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon.
I give thee all,-I can no more, Though poor the off'ring be; My heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee.
Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?
The light that lies In woman's eyes.
Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid
A Persian's heaven is eas'ly made: 'T is but black eyes and lemonade.
All people have their blind side-their superstitions.
Not childhood alone, but the young man till thirty, never feels practically that he is mortal.
Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.
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