Often times we call a man [or woman] cold when he [or she] is only sad.
Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll.
Big words do not smite like war-clubs, Boastful breath is not a bow-string, Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, Deeds are better things than words are, Actions mightier than boastings.
The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from, the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.
Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.
What shall I say to you? What can I say Better than silence is?
"Do not fear! Heaven is as near," He said, "by water as by land!"
The emigrant's way o'er the western desert is mark'd by Camp-fires long consum'd and bones that bleach in the sunshine.
A boy's will is the wind's will.
A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round, If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.
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