Once to every man and nation, comes the moment to decide, In the strife of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side; Some great cause, some great decision, offering each the bloom or blight, And the choice goes by forever, ’twixt that darkness and that light.
It is the rooted instinct in men to admire what is better and more beautiful than themselves.
A great part of human suffering has its root in the nature of man, and not in that of his institutions.
The foolish and the dead alone never change their opinions.
Silence is sorrow's best food.
What men prize most is a privilege, even if it be that of chief mourner at a funeral.
Compromise makes a good umbrella, but a poor roof.
One thorn of experience is worth a whole wilderness of warning.
All the beautiful sentiments in the world weigh less than a single lovely action.
Thank God every morning when you get up that you have something to do that day, which must be done, whether you like it or not.
The greater your real strength and power, the quieter it will be exercised.
Mishaps are like knives, that either serve us or cut us, as we grasp them by the blade or the handle.
Folks never understand the folks they hate.
With every anguish of our earthly part The spirit's sight grows clearer.
Incredulity robs us of many pleasures, and gives us nothing in return.
Our American republic will endure only as long as the ideas of the men who founded it continue dominant.
Democracy is that form of society, no matter what its political classification, in which every man has a chance and knows that he has it.
Blessed are they who have nothing to say and who cannot be persuaded to say it.
Attention is the stuff that memory is made of, and memory is accumulated genius.
Books are the bees which carry the quickening pollen from one to another mind.
As life runs on, the road grows strange with faces new - and near the end. The milestones into headstones change, Neath every one a friend.
Not what we give, but what we share, for the gift without the giver is bare.
The brain can be easy to buy, but the heart never comes to market.
Life is a sheet of paper white / Whereon each one of us may write / His word or two, and then comes night.
Beauty hath no true glass, except it be in the sweet privacy of loving eyes.
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