The smoking flax before it burst to flame Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed.
There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.
The natural alone is permanent. Fantastic idols may be worshipped for a while; but at length they are overturned by the continual and silent progress of Truth, as the grim statues of Copan have been pushed from their pedestals by the growth of forest-trees, whose seeds were sown by the wind in the ruined walls.
The hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain.
See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!
Sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great.
Wondrous strong are the spells of fiction.
The men that women marry, And why they marry them, will always be A marvel and a mystery to the world.
The poor too often turn away unheard, From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in heaven.
And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox.
At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, That nothing with God can be accidental.
Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.
Even cities have their graves!
Ambition's cradle oftenest is its grave
The picture that approaches sculpture nearest Is the best picture.
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
The swallow is come! The swallow is come! O, fair are the seasons, and light Are the days that she brings, With her dusky wings, And her bosom snowy white!
I saw the long line of the vacant shore, The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, And the brown rocks left bare on every hand, As if the ebbing tide would flow no more.
Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others.
Art is the child of Nature; yes, Her darling child, in whom we trace The features of the mother's face, Her aspect and her attitude, All her majestic loveliness Chastened and softened and subdued Into a more attractive grace, And with a human sense imbued. He is the greatest artist, then, Whether of pencil or of pen, Who follows Nature.
The young may die, but the old must!
All things are symbols: the external shows Of Nature have their image in the mind , As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves.
O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on!
Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha the Beloved, In the glory of the sunset, In the purple mists of evening, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin, To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the Land of the Hereafter!
Books are sepulchres of thought.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: