To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest, Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest." And I make answer: "I am satisfied; I dare not ask; I know not what is best; God hath already said what shall betide.
The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.
White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.
Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.
Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.
The smoking flax before it burst to flame Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed.
Our ingress into the world Was naked and bare; Our progress through the world Is trouble and care.
There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.
Be thy sleep Silent as night is, and as deep.
Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!
O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river Linger to kiss thy feet! O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever The world more fair and sweet.
The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy.
Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need.
All things come round to him who will but wait.
Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!
The everyday cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time, giving its pendulum a true vibration and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon its wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move the clock stands still.
Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole heaven within it.
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead.
Under the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. . . . He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. . . . Toiling,-rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.
Stars of earth, these golden flowers; emblems of our own great resurrection; emblems of the bright and better land.
Among the noblest in the land - Though man may count himself the least - That man I honor and revere, Who without favor, without fear, In the great city dares to stand, The friend of every friendless beast.
Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting.
No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.
I love thee, as the good love heaven.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: