For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
If a woman shows too often the Medusa's head, she must not be astonished if her lover is turned into stone.
Oh the long and dreary Winter! Oh the cold and cruel Winter!
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.
The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.
Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat, or in the dark, gray town where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man?
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.
The rays of happiness, like those of light, are colorless when unbroken.
A life that is worth writing at all is worth writing minutely.
And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.
Day of the Lord, as all our days should be!
Great men stand like solitary towers in the city of God.
Art is the child of Nature.
When you ask one friend to dine, Give him your best wine! When you ask two, The second best will do!
For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.
Oh, how beautiful is the summer night, which is not night, but a sunless, yet unclouded, day, descending upon earth with dews and shadows and refreshing coolness! How beautiful the long mild twilight, which, like a silver clasp, unites today with yesterday!
Where'er a noble deed is wrought, Where'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To higher levels rise.
Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay.
O Music! language of the soul, Of love, of God to man; Bright beam from heaven thrilling, That lightens sorrow's weight.
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.
Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.
Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!
The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service.
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