The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.
I will be a man among men; and no longer a dreamer among shadows.
To be infatuated with the power of one's own intellect is an accident which seldom happens but to those who are remarkable for the want of intellectual power. Whenever Nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.
There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye.
This is the place. Stand still, my steed,- Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been.
The human voice is the organ of the soul.
A thought often makes us hotter than a fire.
Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
Where'er a noble deed is wrought, Where'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To higher levels rise.
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.
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.
Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, let us be merciful as well as just
The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.
How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!
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.
I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
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