Where'er a noble deed is wrought, Where'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To higher levels rise.
A thought often makes us hotter than a fire.
So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest.
Nature is a revelation of God; Art a revelation of man.
The human voice is the organ of the soul.
He looks the whole world in the face for he owes not any man.
There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.
When Christ ascended Triumphantly from star to star He left the gates of Heaven ajar.
How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!
The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.
I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart
I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.
Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
The things that have been and shall be no more, The things that are, and that hereafter shall be, The things that might have been, and yet were not, The fading twilight of joys departed.
We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.
Whatever hath been written shall remain, Nor be erased nor written o'er again; The unwritten only still belongs to thee: Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be.
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor. Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead Which, the more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
The student has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy, within the four walls of his library. He has in his books the ruins of an antique world and the glories of a modern one.
A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.
Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.
I cannot believe any man can be perfectly well in body, who has much labor of the mind to perform.
Men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive in what they do than the approbation of men, which is fame, namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself.
A young critic is like a boy with a gun; he fires at every living thing he sees. He thinks only of his own skill, not of the pain he is giving.
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