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Buried Was The Bloody Hatchet; Buried Was The Dreadful War-club; Buried Were All Warlike Weapons, And The War-cry Was Forgotten. Then Was Peace Among The Nations.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Buried Was The Bloody

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Buried Was The Bloody Hatchet; Buried Was The Dreadful War-club; Buried Were All Warlike Weapons, And The War-cry Was Forgotten. Then Was Peace Among The Nations.

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More From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Many A Poem Is Marred By A Superfluous Verse.

Authors Must Not, Like Chinese Soldiers, Expect To Win Victories By Turning Somersets In The Air.

I Have An Affection For A Great City. I Feel Safe In The Neighborhood Of Man, And Enjoy The Sweet Security Of The Streets.

The Thoughts Of Youth Are Long, Long Thoughts

The Nimble Lie Is Like The Second-hand Upon A Clock; We See It Fly; While The Hour-hand Of Truth Seems To Stand Still, And Yet It Moves Unseen, And Wins, At Last, For The Clock Will Not Strike Till It Has Reached The Goal.

They, The Holy Ones And Weakly, Who The Cross Of Suffering Bore, Folded Their Pale Hands So Meekly, Spake With Us On Earth No More!

Every Author Has The Whole Past To Contend With; All The Centuries Are Upon Him. He Is Compared With Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.

A Lady With A Lamp Shall Stand In The Great History Of The Land, A Noble Type Of Good, Heroic Womanhood.

Enjoy The Spring Of Love And Youth, To Some Good Angel Leave The Rest; For Time Will Teach Thee Soon The Truth, There Are No Birds In Last Year's Nest!

The Hearts Of Some Women Tremble Like Leaves At Every Breath Of Love Which Reaches Them, And They Are Still Again. Others, Like The Ocean, Are Moved Only By The Breath Of A Storm, And Not So Easily Lulled To Rest.

In This World A Man Must Either Be Anvil Or Hammer.

There's Not A Ship That Sails The Ocean, But Every Climate, Every Soil, Must Bring Its Tribute, Great Or Small, And Help To Build The Wooden Wall!

Truths That Startled The Generation In Which They Were First Announced Become In The Next Age The Commonplaces Of Conversation; As The Famous Airs Of Operas Which Thrilled The First Audiences Come To Be Played On Hand-organs In The Streets.

No Endeavour Is In Vain; Its Reward Is In The Doing.

In The Elder Days Of Art Builders Wrought With Greatest Care Each Minute And Unseen Part, For The Gods Are Everywhere

O Flower-de-luce, Bloom On, And Let The River Linger To Kiss Thy Feet! O Flower Of Song, Bloom On, And Make Forever The World More Fair And Sweet.

Midnight! The Outpost Of Advancing Day! The Frontier Town And Citadel Of Night!

The Holiest Of Holidays Are Those Kept By Ourselves In Silence And Apart; The Secret Anniversaries Of The Heart.

The Grave Itself Is But A Covered Bridge, Leading From Light To Light, Through A Brief Darkness!

The Air Of Summer Was Sweeter Than Wine.

I Am The Angel Of The Sun Whose Flaming Wheels Began To Run When God's Almighty Breath Said To The Darkness And The Night, Let There Be Light! And There Was Light.

The Pleasant Books, That Silently Among Our Household Treasures Take Familiar Places, And Are To Us As If A Living Tongue Spake From The Printed Leaves Or Pictured Faces!

Never Idle A Moment, But Thrifty And Thoughtful Of Others.

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.

Men Are Four; He Who Knows And Knows Not That He Knows. He Is Asleep; Wake Him. He Who Knows Not And Knows Not That He Knows Not. He Is A Fool; Shun Him. He Who Knows Not And Knows That He Knows Not. He Is A Child; Teach Him. He Who Knows And Knows That He Knows. He Is A King; Follow Him. The Heights By Great Men Reached And Kept Were Not Attained By Sudden Flight, But They, While Their Companions Slept, Were Toiling Upward In The Night.

The Course Of My Long Life Hath Reached At Last In Fragile Bark Over A Tempestuous Sea The Common Harbor, Where Must Rendered Be Account For All The Actions Of The Past.

Some Poems Are Like The Centaurs--a Mingling Of Man And Beast, And Begotten Of Ixion On A Cloud.

Saint Augustine! Well Hast Thou Said, That Of Our Vices We Can Frame A Ladder, If We Will But Tread Beneath Our Feet Each Deed Of Shame.

Go Forth To Meet The Shadowy Future Without Fear And With A Manly Heart.

It Is The Harvest Moon! On Gilded Vanes And Roofs Of Villages, On Woodland Crests And Their Aerial Neighborhoods Of Nests Deserted, On The Curtained Window-panes Of Rooms Where Children Sleep, On Country Lanes And Harvest-fields, Its Mystic Splendor Rests.

All Things Are Symbols: The External Shows Of Nature Have Their Image In The Mind , As Flowers And Fruits And Falling Of The Leaves.

The Spirit-world Around This World Of Sense Floats Like An Atmosphere, And Everywhere Wafts Through These Earthly Mists And Vapours Dense A Vital Breath Of More Ethereal Air.

With Many Readers, Brilliancy Of Style Passes For Affluence Of Thought; They Mistake Buttercups In The Grass For Immeasurable Gold Mines Under Ground.

It Is True, That It Is Not At All Necessary To Love Many Books, In Order To Love Them Much.

What Child Has A Heart To Sing In This Capricious Clime Of Ours, When Spring Comes Sailing In From The Sea, With Wet And Heavy Cloud-sails And The Misty Pennon Of The East-wind Nailed To The Mast.

Method Is More Important Than Strength, When You Wish To Control Your Enemies. By Dropping Golden Beads Near A Snake, A Crow Once Managed To Have A Passer-by Kill The Snake For The Beads.

Tell Me Not, In Mournful Numbers, Life Is But An Empty Dream!

Difficulty On The Way To Victory Is Opportunity For God To Work

Even Cities Have Their Graves!

Oh The Long And Dreary Winter! Oh The Cold And Cruel Winter!

And As She Looked Around, She Saw How Death The Consoler, Laying His Hand Upon Many A Heart, Had Healed It Forever.

Many Readers Judge Of The Power Of A Book By The Shock It Gives Their Feelings - As Some Savage Tribes Determine The Power Of Muskets By Their Recoil; That Being Considered Best Which Fairly Prostrates The Purchaser.

There Is No Death! What Seems So Is Transition; This Life Of Mortal Breath Is But A Suburb Of The Life Elysian, Whose Portal We Call Death.

The Wreck Of The Hesperus But The Father Answered Never A Word, A Frozen Corpse Was He.

Some Feelings Are Quite Untranslatable; No Language Has Yet Been Found For Them. They Gleam Upon Us Beautifully Through The Dim Twilight Of Fancy, And Yet When We Bring Them Close To Us, And Hold Them Up To The Light Of Reason, Lose Their Beauty All At Once, As Glow Worms Which Gleam With Such A Spiritual Light In The Shadows Of Evening, When Brought In Where The Candles Are Lighted, Are Found To Be Only Worms Like So Many Others.

Ambition's Cradle Oftenest Is Its Grave

A Town That Boasts Inhabitants Like Me Can Have No Lack Of Good Society.

There In Seclusion And Remote From Men The Wizard Hand Lies Cold, Which At Its Topmost Speed Let Fall The Pen, And Left The Tale Half Told. Ah! Who Shall Lift That Wand Of Magic Power, And The Lost Clew Regain? The Unfinished Window In Aladdin's Tower Unfinished Must Remain!

Love Gives Itself; It Is Not Bought.

Every Man Has His Secret Sorrows.

Whenever Nature Leaves A Hole In A Person's Mind, She Generally Plasters It Over With A Thick Coat Of Self-conceit.

The Foods That Prolong Life And Increase Purity, Vigour, Health, Cheerfulness, And Happiness Are Those That Are Delicious, Soothing, Substantial And Agreeable... Foods That Are Bitter, Sour, Salt, Over-hot, Pungent, Dry And Burning Produce Unhappiness, Repentance And Disease.

As Great Pythagoras Of Yore, Standing Beside The Blacksmith's Door, And Hearing The Hammers, As They Smote The Anvils With A Different Note, Stole From The Varying Tones, That Hung Vibrant On Every Iron Tongue, The Secret Of The Sounding Wire. And Formed The Seven-chorded Lyre.

The Human Voice Is The Organ Of The Soul.

The Heart, Like The Mind, Has A Memory. And In It Are Kept The Most Precious Keepsakes.

'twas Easter-sunday. The Full-blossomed Trees Filled All The Air With Fragrance And With Joy.

Who Dares To Say That He Alone Has Found The Truth?

The Devil Hinders Me. You Know I Say Just What I Think, And Nothing More Nor Less, And, When I Pray, My Heart Is In My Prayer. I Cannot Say One Thing And Mean Another. If I Can't Pray, I Will Not Make Believe!

Even He That Died For Us Upon The Cross, In The Last Hour, In The Unutterable Agony Of Death, Was Mindful Of His Mother, As If To Teach Us That This Holy Love Should Be Our Last Worldly Thought - The Last Point Of Earth From Which The Soul Should Take Its Flight For Heaven.

Thinking The Deed, And Not The Creed, Would Help Us In Our Utmost Need.

Softly The Evening Came. The Sun From The Western Horizon Like A Magician Extended His Golden Want O'er The Landscape; Trinkling Vapors Arose; And Sky And Water And Forest Seemed All On Fire At The Touch, And Melted And Mingled Together.

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!

Resolve And Thou Art Free.

The Counterfeit And Counterpart Of Nature Is Reproduced In Art.

Counterfeit Money

Thus Thought I, As By Night I Read Of The Great Army Of The Dead, The Trenches Cold And Damp, The Starved And Frozen Camp,-- The Wounded From The Battle-plain, In Dreary Hospitals Of Pain, The Cheerless Corridors, The Cold And Stony Floors. Lo! In That House Of Misery A Lady With A Lamp I See Pass Through The Glimmering Gloom And Flit From Room To Room. And Slow, As In A Dream Of Bliss, The Speechless Sufferer Turns To Kiss Her Shadow, As It Falls Upon The Darkening Walls.

A Man Must Be Of A Very Quiet And Happy Nature, Who Can Long Endure The Country; And, Moreover, Very Well Contented With His Own Insignificant Person.

Time Has Laid His Hand Upon My Heart, Gently, Not Smiting It, But As A Harper Lays His Open Palm Upon His Harp, To Deaden Its Vibrations.

O Lovely River Of Yvette! O Darling River! Like A Bride, Some Dimpled, Bashful, Fair Lisette Thou Goest To Wed The Orge's Tide. O Lovely River Yvette! O Darling Stream! On Balanced Wings The Wood-birds Sang The Chansonnette That Here A Wandering Poet Sings.

There Are Moments In Life, When The Heart Is So Full Of Emotion That If By Chance It Be Shaken, Or Into Its Depths Like A Pebble Drops Some Careless Word, It Overflows, And Its Secret, Spilt On The Ground Like Water, Can Never Be Gathered Together.

Your Education Begins Where What Is Called Your Education Is Over. Your Fate Is But The Common Lot Of All.

Ripe In Wisdom Was He, But Patient, And Simple, And Childlike.

The Laws Of Nature Are Just, But Terrible. There Is No Weak Mercy In Them. Cause And Consequence Are Inseparable And Inevitable. The Elements Have No Forbearance. The Fire Burns, The Water Drowns, The Air Consumes, The Earth Buries. And Perhaps It Would Be Well For Our Race If The Punishment Of Crimes Against The Laws Of Man Were As Inevitable As The Punishment Of Crimes Against The Laws Of Nature -were Man As Unerring In His Judgments As Nature.

If The Great Captain Of Plymouth Is So Very Eager To Wed Me, Why Does He Not Come Himself, And Take The Trouble To Woo Me? If I Am Not Worth The Wooing, I Surely Am Not Worth The Winning!

As I Gaze Upon The Sea! All The Old Romantic Legends, All My Dreams, Come Back To Me.

Every Dew-drop And Rain-drop Had A Whole Heaven Within It.

My Soul Is Full Of Longing For The Secret Of The Sea

I Love Thee, As The Good Love Heaven.

Method Is More Important Than Strength, When You Wish To Control Your Enemies.

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.

Only A Look And A Voice; Then Darkness Again And Silence.

God Sent His Singers Upon Earth With Songs Of Sadness And Of Mirth, That They Might Touch The Hearts Of Men, And Bring Them Back To Heaven Again.

If I Am Not Worth The Wooing, I Surely Am Not Worth The Winning!

Inspirational Love

In The World's Broad Field Of Battle, In The Bivouac Of Life, Be Not Like Dumb, Driven Cattle! Be A Hero In The Strife!

Ne Speaketh Not; And Yet There Lies A Conversation In His Eyes.

We Often Excuse Our Own Want Of Philanthropy By Giving The Name Of Fanaticism To The More Ardent Zeal Of Others.

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.

In The Lives Of The Saddest Of Us, There Are Bright Days Like This, When We Feel As If We Could Take The Great World In Our Arms And Kiss It. Then Come The Gloomy Hours, When The Fire Will Neither Burn On Our Hearths Nor In Our Hearts; And All Without And Within Is Dismal, Cold, And Dark. Believe Me, Every Heart Has Its Secret Sorrows, Which The World Knows Not, And Oftentimes We Call A Man Cold, When He Is Only Sad.

The Shadows Of The Mind Are Like Those Of The Body. In The Morning Of Life They All Lie Behind Us; At Noon We Trample Them Under Foot; And In The Evening They Stretch Long, Broad, And Deepening Before Us.

If Spring Came But Once A Century Instead Of Once A Year, Or Burst Forth With The Sound Of An Earthquake And Not In Silence, What Wonder And Expectation There Would Be In All The Hearts To Behold The Miraculous Change.

Fear Is The Virtue Of Slaves; But The Heart That Loveth Is Willing.

Would You Learn The Secret Of The Sea? Only Those Who Brave Its Dangers, Comprehend Its Mystery!

The Greatest Firmness Is The Greatest Mercy.

In The Long Run Men Hit Only What They Aim At.

The Heights By Great Men Reached And Kept Were Not Attained By Sudden Flight, But They, While Their Companions Slept, Were Toiling Upward In The Night.

See Yonder Fire! It Is The Moon Slow Rising O'er The Eastern Hill. It Glimmers On The Forest Tips, And Through The Dewy Foliage Drips In Little Rivulets Of Light, And Makes The Heart In Love With Night.

And In Despair I Bowed My Head; "there Is No Peace On Earth," I Said; "for Hate Is Strong, And Mocks The Song Of Peace On Earth, Good-will To Men!" Then Pealed The Bells More Loud And Deep: "god Is Not Dead, Nor Doth He Sleep! The Wrong Shall Fail, The Right Prevail, With Peace On Earth, Good-will To Men!

Look, Then, Into Thine Heart, And Write! Yes, Into Life's Deep Stream! All Forms Of Sorrow And Delight, All Solemn Voices Of The Night, That Can Soothe Thee, Or Affright, - Be These Henceforth Thy Theme. (excerpt From "voices Of The Night")

I Love The Season Well When Forest Glades Are Teeming With Bright Forms, Nor Dark And Many-folded Clouds Foretell The Coming Of Storms.

Maiden, That Read'st This Simple Rhyme, Enjoy Thy Youth, It Will Not Stay; Enjoy The Fragrance Of Thy Prime, For Oh, It Is Not Always May!

So Disasters Come Not Singly; But As If They Watched And Waited, Scanning One Another's Motions, When The First Descends, The Others Follow, Follow, Gathering Flock-wiseround Their Victim, Sick And Wounded, First A Shadow, Then A Sorrow, Till The Air Is Dark With Anguish.

How Wonderful Is The Human Voice! It Is Indeed The Organ Of The Soul. The Intellect Of Man Is Enthroned Visibly On His Forehead And In His Eye, And The Heart Of Man Is Written On His Countenance, But The Soul, The Soul Reveals Itself In The Voice Only.

Day, Like A Weary Pilgrim, Had Reached The Western Gate Of Heaven, And Evening Stooped Down To Unloose The Latchets Of His Sandal Shoon.

Winter Giveth The Fields, And The Trees So Old, Their Beards Of Icicles And Snow.

I Love An Author The More For Having Been Himself A Lover Of Books.

If We Could Read The Secret History Of Our Enemies.

It Is Lucifer, The Son Of Mystery; And Since God Suffers Him To Be, He Too, Is God's Minister, And Labors For Some Good By Us Not Understood.

If We Love One Another, Nothing, In Truth, Can Harm Us, Whatever Mischances May Happen.

Love One Another

To Be Strong Is To Be Happy!

And All The Air Is Filled With Pleasant Noise Of Waters

The Poor Too Often Turn Away Unheard, From Hearts That Shut Against Them With A Sound That Will Be Heard In Heaven.

Intelligence And Courtesy Not Always Are Combined; Often In A Wooden House A Golden Room We Find.

All Things Must Change To Something New, To Something Strange.

Let Us Then Be Up And Doing, With A Heart For Any Fate, Still Achieving, Still Pursuing, Learn To Labor And To Wait.

He That Respects Himself Is Safe From Others. He Wears A Coat Of Mail That None Can Pierce.

Nature Paints Not; In Oils, But Frescoes The Great Dome Of Heaven; With Sunsets, And The Lovely Forms Of Clouds; And Flying Vapors.

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall.

This Is The Forest Primeval. The Murmuring Pines And The Hemlocks, Bearded With Moss, And In Garments Green, Indistinct In The Twilight, Stand Like Druids Of Eld, With Voices Sad And Prophetic, Stand Like Harpers Hoar, With Beards That Rest On Their Bosoms. Loud From Its Rocky Caverns, The Deep-voiced Neighboring Ocean Speaks, And In Accents Disconsolate Answers The Wail Of The Forest.

Work Is My Recreation, The Play Of Faculty; A Delight Like That Which A Bird Feels In Flying, Or A Fish In Darting Through The Water,--nothing More.

If The Mind, That Rules The Body, Ever So Far Forgets Itself As To Trample On Its Slave, The Slave Is Never Generous Enough To Forgive The Injury, But Will Rise And Smite The Oppressor.

Life Hath Quicksands, Life Hath Snares!

Feeling Is Deep And Still; And The Word That Floats On The Surface Is As The Tossing Buoy, That Betrays Where The Anchor Is Hidden.

As The Heart Is, So Is Love To The Heart. It Partakes Of Its Strength Or Weakness, Its Health Or Disease.

When We Walk Towards The Sun Of Truth, All Shadows Are Cast Behind Us.

The Bravest Are The Tenderest.

The Twilight Is Sad And Cloudy, The Wind Blows Wild And Free, And Like The Wings Of Sea-birds Flash The White Caps Of The Sea.

Nothing That Is Can Pause Or Stay; / The Moon Will Wax, The Moon Will Wane, / The Mist And Cloud Will Turn To Rain, / The Rain To Mist And Cloud Again, / Tomorrow Be Today.

In The Mouths Of Many Men Soft Words Are Like Roses That Soldiers Put Into The Muzzles Of Their Muskets On Holidays.

He Spoke Well Who Said That Graves Are The Footprints Of Angels.

Losing A Loved One

Sit In Reverie And Watch The Changing Color Of The Waves That Break Upon The Idle Seashore Of The Mind.

How Far The Gulf-stream Of Our Youth May Flow Into The Arctic Regions Of Our Lives, Where Little Else Than Life Itself Survives.

Talk Not Of Wasted Affection - Affection Never Was Wasted.

Out Of The Bosom Of The Air, Out Of The Cloud-folds Of Her Garments Shaken, Over The Woodlands Brown And Bare, Over The Harvest-fields Forsaken, Silent, And Soft, And Slow Descends The Snow.

Gone Are The Birds That Were Our Summer Guests.

We See But Dimly Through The Mists And Vapors; Amid These Earthly Damps What Seem To Us But Sad, Funereal Tapers May Be Heaven's Distant Lamps.

In What A Forge And What A Heat Were Shaped The Anchors Of Thy Hope! Fear Not Each Sudden Sound And Shock; 'tis Of The Wave And Not The Rock.

Noble Souls, Through Dust And Heat, Rise From Disaster And Defeat The Stronger.

What Shall I Say To You? What Can I Say Better Than Silence Is?

Authors Have A Greater Right Than Any Copyright, Though It Is Generally Unacknowledged Or Disregarded. They Have A Right To The Reader's Civility. There Are Favorable Hours For Reading A Book, As For Writing It, And To These The Author Has A Claim. Yet Many People Think That When They Buy A Book They Buy With It The Right To Abuse The Author.

The Talent Of Success Is Nothing More Than Doing What You Can Do Well, And Doing Well Whatever You Do Without Thought Of Fame. If It Comes At All It Will Come Because It Is Deserved, Not Because It Is Sought After.

Congratulations

Welcome, Disappointment! Thy Hand Is Cold And Hard, But It Is The Hand Of A Friend. Thy Voice Is Stern And Harsh, But It Is The Voice Of A Friend. Oh, There Is Something Sublime In Calm Endurance, Something Sublime In The Resolute, Fixed Purpose Of Suffering Without Complaining, Which Makes Disappointment Oftentimes Better Than Success!

Thus, Seamed With Many Scars Bursting These Prison Bars, Up To Its Native Stars My Soul Ascended! There From The Flowing Bowl Deep Drinks The Warrior's Soul, Skoal! To The Northland! Skoal! Thus The Tale Ended.

Perhaps The Chief Cause Which Has Retarded The Progress Of Poetry In America, Is The Want Of That Exclusive Cultivation, Which So Noble A Branch Of Literature Would Seem To Require. Few Here Think Of Relying Upon The Exertion Of Poetic Talent For A Livelihood, And Of Making Literature The Profession Of Life. The Bar Or The Pulpit Claims The Greater Part Of The Scholar's Existence, And Poetry Is Made Its Pastime.

Lives Of Great Men All Remind Us We Can Make Our Lives Sublime, And Departing, Leave Behind Us Footprints On The Sands Of Time.

We Judge Ourselves By What We Feel Capable Of Doing, While Others Judge Us By What We Have Already Done.

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls, The Burial-ground God's-acre.

Every Man Is In Some Sort A Failure To Himself. No One Ever Reaches The Heights To Which He Aspires.

O Little Feet! That Such Long Years Must Wander On Through Hopes And Fears, Must Ache And Bleed Beneath Your Load; I, Nearer To The Wayside Inn Where Toil Shall Cease And Rest Begin, Am Weary, Thinking Of Your Road!

Thinking Of You

I Do Not Believe Anyone Can Be Perfectly Well, Who Has A Brain And A Heart

Books Are Sepulchres Of Thought.

By The Shore Of Gitche Gumee, By The Shining Big-sea-water, At The Doorway Of His Wigwam, In The Pleasant Summer Morning, Hiawatha Stood And Waited.

We Are All Architects Of Faith, Ever Living In These Walls Of Time.

My Own Thoughts Are My Companions.

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It.

The Market-place, The Eager Love Of Gain, Whose Aim Is Vanity, And Whose End Is Pain!

Sorrow And Silence Are Strong, And Patient Endurance Is Godlike.

Still Stands The Forest Primeval; But Far Away From Its Shadow, Side By Side, In Their Nameless Graves, The Lovers Are Sleeping.under The Humble Walls Of The Little Catholic Churchyard,in The Heart Of The City, They Lie, Unknown And Unnoticed;daily The Tides Of Life Go Ebbing And Flowing Beside Them,thousands Of Throbbing Hearts, Where Theirs Are At Rest And Forever,thousands Of Aching Brains, Where Theirs No Longer Are Busy,thousands Of Toiling Hands, Where Theirs Have Ceased From Their Labors,thousands Of Weary Feet, Where Theirs Have Completed Their Journey!

The Rays Of Happiness, Like Those Of Light, Are Colorless When Unbroken.

The Prayer Of Ajax Was For Light.

Races, Better Than We, Have Leaned On Her Wavering Promise, Having Naught Else But Hope.

I Am Never Indifferent, And Never Pretend To Be, To What People Say Or Think Of My Books. They Are My Children, And I Like To Have Them Liked.

I Know Not How It Is, But During A Voyage I Collect Books As A Ship Does Barnacles.

All Your Strength Is In Union, All Your Danger Is In Discord.

Often Times We Call A Man [or Woman] Cold When He [or She] Is Only Sad.

Sweet As The Tender Fragrance That Survives, When Martyred Flowers Breathe Out Their Little Lives, Sweet As A Song That Once Consoled Our Pain, But Never Will Be Sung To Us Again, Is They Remembrance. Now The Hour Of Rest Hath Come To Thee. Sleep, Darling: It Is Best.

No Man Is So Poor As To Have Nothing Worth Giving.

Build Today, Then Strong And Sure, With A Firm And Ample Base; And Ascending And Secure. Shall Tomorrow Find Its Place.

All Nature ... Is A Respiration Of The Spirit Of God, Who, In Breathing Hereafter Will Inhale It Into His Bosom Again, So That Nothing But God Alone Will Remain.

Write On Your Doors The Saying Wise And Old, "be Bold! Be Bold!" And Everywhere - "be Bold; Be Not Too Bold!" Yet Better The Excess Than The Defect; Better The More Than Less; Better Like Hector In The Field To Die, Than Like A Perfumed Paris Turn And Fly.

Though The Mills Of God Grind Slowly, Yet They Grind Exceeding Small; Though With Patience He Stands Waiting, With Exactness Grinds He All.

The Morning Breaks; The Steeds In Their Stalls Stamp And Neigh, As The Hostler Calls; The Day Returns, But Nevermore Returns The Traveler To The Shore, And The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls.

It Is A Beautiful Trait In The Lover's Character, That They Think No Evil Of The Object Loved.

Nothing With God Can Be Accidental.

Kind Hearts Are The Gardens, Kind Thoughts Are The Roots, Kind Words Are The Flowers, Kind Deeds Are The Fruits, Take Care Of Your Garden And Keep Out The Weeds, Fill It With Sunshine, Kind Words, And Kind Deeds.

No Man Is So Poor As That. As Well Might The Mountain Streamlets Say They Have Nothing Worth Giving To The Sea, Because They Are Not Rivers. Give What You Have. To Some One, It May Be Better Than You Dare To Think.

Youth Comes But Once In A Lifetime.

Sculpture Is More Divine, And More Like Nature, That Fashions All Her Works In High Relief, And That Is Sculpture. This Vast Ball, The Earth, Was Moulded Out Of Clay, And Baked In Fire; Men, Women, And All Animals That Breathe Are Statues, And Not Paintings.

Ah, How Skillful Grows The Hand That Obeyeth Love's Command! It Is The Heart, And Not The Brain, That To The Highest Doth Attain, And He Who Followeth Love's Behest Far Excelleth All The Rest!

The Nile, Forever New And Old, Among The Living And The Dead, Its Mighty, Mystic Stream Has Rolled.

There Rises The Moon, Broad And Tranquil, Through The Branches Of A Walnut Tree On A Hill Opposite. I Apostrophize It In The Words Of Faust; "o Gentle Moon, That Lookest For The Last Time Upon My Agonies!" --or Something To That Effect.

For Hate Is Strong, And Mocks The Song Of Peace On Earth, Good-will To Men!

Well I Know The Secret Places, And The Nests In Hedge And Tree; At What Doors Are Friendly Faces, In What Hearts Are Thoughts Of Me.

The History Of The Past Is A Mere Puppet-show. A Little Man Comes Out And Blows A Little Trumpet, And Goes In Again. You Look For Something New, And Lo! Another Little Man Comes Out, And Blows Another Little Trumpet, And Goes In Again. And It Is All Over.

I Will Be A Man Among Men; And No Longer A Dreamer Among Shadows.

The Greatest Grace Of A Gift, Perhaps, Is That It Anticipates And Admits Of No Return.

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.

Youth Wrenches The Sceptre From Old Age, And Sets The Crown On Its Own Head Before It Is Entitled To It.

They Who Live In History Only Seemed To Walk The Earth Again.

Many Critics Are Like Woodpeckers, Who, Instead Of Enjoying The Fruit And Shadow Of A Tree, Hop Incessantly Around The Trunk, Pecking Holes In The Bark To Discover Some Little Worm Or Other.

The Tragic Element In Poetry Is Like Saturn In Alchemy, The Malevolent, The Destroyer Of Nature ; But Without It No True Aurum Potabile, Or Elixir Of Life, Can Be Made.

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.

There Is Nothing Holier In This Life Of Ours Than The First Consciousness Of Love, The First Fluttering Of Its Silken Wings.

Wondrous Strong Are The Spells Of Fiction.

I Hear The Wind Among The Trees Playing The Celestial Symphonies; I See The Branches Downward Bent, Like Keys Of Some Great Instrument.

Standing, With Reluctant Feet, Where The Brook And River Meet, Womanhood And Childhood Fleet!

Nature Is A Revelation Of God; Art A Revelation Of Man.

Thus Departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha The Beloved, In The Glory Of The Sunset, In The Purple Mists Of Evening, To The Regions Of The Home-wind, Of The Northwest-wind, Keewaydin, To The Islands Of The Blessed, To The Kingdom Of Ponemah, To The Land Of The Hereafter!

Learn To Labour And To Wait.

The Low Desire, The Base Design That Makes Another's Virtues Less.

Softly The Evening Came /with The Sunset/.

Love Contending With Friendship, And Self With Each Generous Impulse. To And Fro In His Breast His Thoughts Were Heaving And Dashing, As In A Foundering Ship.

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