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Decide Not Rashly. The Decision Made Can Never Be Recalled. The Gods Implore Not, Plead Not, Solicit Not; They Only Offer Choice And Occasion, Which Once Being Passed Return No More. Dost Thou Accept The Gift?

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Decide Not Rashly. The

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Decide Not Rashly. The Decision Made Can Never Be Recalled. The Gods Implore Not, Plead Not, Solicit Not; They Only Offer Choice And Occasion, Which Once Being Passed Return No More. Dost Thou Accept The Gift?

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Big Words Do Not Smite Like War-clubs, Boastful Breath Is Not A Bow-string, Taunts Are Not So Sharp As Arrows, Deeds Are Better Things Than Words Are, Actions Mightier Than Boastings.

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.

By The Shores Of Gitchee Gumee, By The Shining Big-sea-water, Stood The Wigwam Of Nokomis, Daughter Of The Moon, Nokomis, Dark Behind It Rose The Forest, Rose The Black And Gloomy Pine-trees, Rose The Firs With Cones Upon Them; Bright Before It Beat The Water, Beat The Clear And Sunny Water, Beat The Shining Big-sea-water.

God Is Not Dead; Nor Doth He Sleep; ... The Wrong Shall Fail, The Right Prevail, With Peace On Earth, Good Will To Men.

The Nearer The Dawn The Darker The Night.

There Are Favorable Hours For Reading A Book, As For Writing It.

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!

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

I Shot An Arrow Into The Air, It Fell To Earth, I Knew Not Where.

The Helicon Of Too Many Poets Is Not A Hill Crowned With Sunshine And Visited By The Muses And The Graces, But An Old, Mouldering House, Full Of Gloom And Haunted By Ghosts.

Among The Noblest In The Land - Though Man May Count Himself The Least - That Man I Honor And Revere, Who Without Favor, Without Fear, In The Great City Dares To Stand, The Friend Of Every Friendless Beast.

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

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

The Spring Came Suddenly, Bursting Upon The World As A Child Bursts Into A Room, With A Laugh And A Shout And Hands Full Of Flowers.

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.

Happy Art Thou, As If Every Day Thou Hadst Picked Up A Horseshoe.

Give What You Have. To Some One, It May Be Better Than You Dare To Think.

History Casts Its Shadow Far Into The Land Of Song.

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.

To Be Strong Is To Be Happy!

The Day Is Done; And Slowly From The Scene The Stooping Sun Upgathers His Spent Shafts, And Puts Them Back Into His Golden Quiver!

The Day Is Cold, And Dark, And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary; The Vine Still Clings To The Mouldering Wall, But At Every Gust The Dead Leaves Fall, And The Day Is Dark And Dreary. My Life Is Cold, And Dark, And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary; My Thoughts Still Cling To The Mouldering Past, But The Hopes Of Youth Fall Thick In The Blast, And The Days Are Dark And Dreary. Be Still, Sad Heart! And Cease Repining; Behind The Clouds Is The Sun Still Shining; Thy Fate Is The Common Fate Of All, Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall, Some Days Must Be Dark And Dreary.

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

The Natural Alone Is Permanent. Fantastic Idols May Be Worshipped For A While; But At Length They Are Overturned By The Continual And Silent Progress Of Truth, As The Grim Statues Of Copan Have Been Pushed From Their Pedestals By The Growth Of Forest-trees, Whose Seeds Were Sown By The Wind In The Ruined Walls.

Don't Cross The Bridge Til You Come To It.

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

What Heart Has Not Acknowledged The Influence Of This Hour, The Sweet And Soothing Hour Of Twilight, The Hour Of Love, The Hour Of Adoration, The Hour Of Rest, When We Think Of Those We Love Only To Regret That We Have Not Loved Them More Dearly, When We Remember Our Enemies Only To Forgive Them.

As Unto The Bow The The Cord Is , So Unto The Man Is Woman; Though She Bends Him, She Obeys Him, Though She Draws Him , Yet She Follows: Useless Each Without The Other.

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 Stay A Little Longer, As One Stays, To Cover Up The Embers That Still Burn.

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.

Music Is The Language Spoken By Angels.

Will Without Power Is Like Children Playing At Soldiers.

O Ye Dead Poets, Who Are Living Still Immortal In Your Verse, Though Life Be Fled, And Ye, O Living Poets, Who Are Dead Though Ye Are Living, If Neglect Can Kill, Tell Me If In The Darkest Hours Of Ill, With Drops Of Anguish Falling Fast And Red From The Sharp Crown Of Thorns Upon Your Head, Ye Were Not Glad Your Errand To Fulfill?

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

Our Hearts, Our Hopes, Our Prayers, Our Tears, Our Faith Triumphant O’er Our Fears, Are All With Thee – Are All With Thee!

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

At First Laying Down, As A Fact Fundamental, That Nothing With God Can Be Accidental.

Look, Then, Into Thine Heart, And Write!

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

Ah Me! What Wonder-working, Occult Science Can From The Ashes In Our Hearts Once More The Rose Of Youth Restore? What Craft Of Alchemy Can Bid Defiance To Time And Change, And For A Single Hour Renew This Phantom-flower?

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting, And Our Hearts, Though Stout And Brave, Still, Like Muffled Drums, Are Beating Funeral Marches To The Grave.

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

For The Structure That We Raise, Time Is With Materials Filled; Our To-days And Yesterdays Are The Blocks With Which We Build.

As Turning The Logs Will Make A Dull Fire Burn, So Change Of Studies A Dull Brain.

A Boy's Will Is The Wind's Will.

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

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.

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.

The Moon Is Hidden Behind A Cloud... On The Leaves Is A Sound Of Falling Rain... No Other Sounds Than These I Hear; The Hour Of Midnight Must Be Near... So Many Ghosts, And Forms Of Fright, Have Started From Their Graves To-night, They Have Driven Sleep From Mine Eyes Away: I Will Go Down To The Chapel And Pray.

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.

Bell, Thou Soundest Merrily, When The Bridal Party To The Church Doth Hie! Bell, Thou Soundest Solemnly, When, On Sabbath Morning, Fields Deserted Lie!

After A Day Of Cloud And Wind And Rain Sometimes The Setting Sun Breaks Out Again, And Touching All The Darksome Woods With Light, Smiles On The Fields Until They Laugh And Sing, Then Like A Ruby From The Horizon's Ring, Drops Down Into The Night.

Under The Spreading Chestnut Tree The Village Smithy Stands; The Smith, A Mighty Man Is He, With Large And Sinewy Hands; And The Muscles Of His Brawny Arms Are Strong As Iron Bands. . . . He Earns Whate'er He Can, And Looks The Whole World In The Face, For He Owes Not Any Man. . . . Toiling,-rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward Through Life He Goes; Each Morning Sees Some Task Begin, Each Evening Sees It Close; Something Attempted, Something Done, Has Earned A Night's Repose.

Three Silences There Are: The First Of Speech, The Second Of Desire, The Third Of Thought.

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!

The Motives And Purposes Of Authors Are Not Always So Pure And High, As, In The Enthusiasm Of Youth, We Sometimes Imagine. To Many The Trumpet Of Fame Is Nothing But A Tin Horn To Call Them Home, Like Laborers From, The Field, At Dinner-time, And They Think Themselves Lucky To Get The Dinner.

Kind Messages, That Pass From Land To Land; Kind Letters, That Betray The Heart's Deep History, In Which We Feel The Pressure Of A Hand,-- One Touch Of Fire,--and All The Rest Is Mystery!

Decide Not Rashly. The Decision Made Can Never Be Recalled. The Gods Implore Not, Plead Not, Solicit Not; They Only Offer Choice And Occasion, Which Once Being Passed Return No More. Dost Thou Accept The Gift?

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.

Enthusiasm Begets Enthusiasm.

If You Would Hit The Mark, You Must Aim A Little Above It.

All Things Are Symbols.

The Soul...is Audible, Not Visible.

The Gentle Wind, A Sweet And Passionate Wooer, Kisses The Blushing Leaf.

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

Down Sank The Great Red Sun, And In Golden, Glimmering Vapors Veiled The Light Of His Face, Like The Prophet Descending From Sinai.

Be Still, Sad Heart! And Cease Repining; Behind The Clouds Is The Sun Still Shining; Thy Fate Is The Common Fate Of All, Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

My Own Thoughts Are My Companions.

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.

Doubtless Criticism Was Originally Benignant, Pointing Out The Beauties Of A Work Rather That Its Defects. The Passions Of Men Have Made It Malignant, As A Bad Heart Of Procreates Turned The Bed, The Symbol Of Repose, Into An Instrument Of Torture.

But The Nearer The Dawn The Darker The Night, And By Going Wrong All Things Come Right. Things Have Been Mended That Were Worse, And The The Worse, The Nearer They Are To Mend.

As To The Pure Mind All Things Are Pure, So To The Poetic Mind All Things Are Poetical.

There Is Nothing Perfectly Secure But Poverty.

There's Nothing Fair Nor Beautiful, But Takes Something From Thee, That Makes It Beautiful.

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

The Morrow Was A Bright September Morn; The Earth Was Beautiful As If Newborn; There Was Nameless Splendor Everywhere, That Wild Exhilaration In The Air, Which Makes The Passers In The City Street Congratulate Each Other As They Meet.

None But Yourself Who Are Your Greatest Foe.

Wondrous Strong Are The Spells Of Fiction.

Silence Is A Great Peacemaker.

A Thought Often Makes Us Hotter Than A Fire.

Death Is The Chillness That Precedes The Dawn; We Shudder For A Moment, Then Awake In The Broad Sunshine Of The Other Life.

And All The Air Is Filled With Pleasant Noise Of Waters

Today Is The Blocks With Which We Build.

Live In The Moment

There Is No Light In Earth Or Heaven But The Cold Light Of Stars; And The First Watch Of Night Is Given To The Red Planet Mars.

A Life That Is Worth Writing At All Is Worth Writing Minutely.

This Will Be A Great Day In Our History; The Date Of A New Revolution - Quite As Much Needed As The Old One. Even Now As I Write They Are Leading Old John Brown To Execution In Virginia For Attempting To Rescue Slaves! This Is Sowing The Wind To Reap The Whirlwind Which Will Come Soon!

The Sky Is Filled With Stars, Invisible By Day.

My Book And Heart Shall Never Part.

The Great Tragedy Of The Average Man Is That He Goes To His Grave With His Music Still In Him.

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

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!

And The Wind Plays On Those Great Sonorous Harps, The Shrouds And Masts Of Ships.

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

Quotes About Life Tell Me Not, In Mournful Numbers, Life Is But An Empty Dream! For The Soul Is Dead That Slumbers, And Things Are Not What They Seem. Life Is Real! Life Is Earnest! And The Grave Is Not Its Goal; Dust Thou Art; To Dust Returnest, Was Not Spoken Of The Soul.

Look At This Vigorous Plant That Lifts Its Head From The Meadow, See How Its Leaves Are Turned To The North, As True As The Magnet; This Is The Compass-flower, That The Finger Of God Has Planted Here In The Houseless Wild, To Direct The Traveller's Journey. Over The Sea-like, Pathless, Limitless Waste Of The Desert, Such In The Soul Of Man Is Faith.

Taste The Joy That Springs From Labor.

All Was Ended Now, The Hope, And The Fear And The Sorrow, All The Aching Of The Heart, The Restless, Unsatisfied Longing, All The Dull, Deep Pain, And Constant Anguish Of Patience!

Ah, To Build, To Build! That Is The Noblest Of All The Arts.

All That Is Best In The Great Poets Of All Countries Is Not What Is National In Them, But What Is Universal.

It Was The Schooner Hesperus, That Sailed The Wintry Sea.

Good-night! Good-night! As We So Oft Have Said Beneath This Roof At Midnight, In The Days That Are No More, And Shall No More Return. Thou Hast But Taken Up Thy Lamp And Gone To Bed; I Stay A Little Longer, As One Stays To Cover Up The Embers That Still Burn.

The Holiest Of All Holidays Are Those Kept By Ourselves In Silence And Apart; The Secret Anniversaries Of The Heart, When The Full River Of Feeling Overflows;- The Happy Days Unclouded To Their Close; The Sudden Joys That Our Of Darkness Start As Flames From Ashes; Swift Desires That Dart Like Swallows Singing Down Each Wind That Blows!

O Gift Of God! O Perfect Day: Whereon Shall No Man Work, But Play; Whereon It Is Enough For Me, Not To Be Doing, But To Be!

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.

Mercy More Becomes A Magistrate Than The Vindictive Wrath Which Men Call Justice.

All The Means Of Action -- The Shapeless Masses -- The Materials -- Lie Everywhere About Us. What We Need Is The Celestial Fire To Change The Flint Into The Transparent Crystal, Bright And Clear. That Fire Is Genius.

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

.... Anon From The Castle Walls The Crescent Banner Falls, And The Crowd Beholds Instead, Like A Portent In The Sky, Iskander's Banner Fly, The Black Eagle With Double Head. And Shouts Ascend On High .....'' Long Live Scanderbeg.

The Lamps Are Lit, The Fires Burn Bright. The House Is Full Of Life And Light.

Therefore Trust To Thy Heart, And To What The World Calls Illusions.

Perhaps The Greatest Lesson Which The Lives Of Literary Men Teach Us Is Told In A Single Word* Wait!

Prayer Is Innocence's Friend; And Willingly Flieth Incessant 'twist The Earth And The Sky, The Carrier-pigeon Of Heaven.

The Secret Anniversaries Of The Heart.

If We Could Read The Secret History Of Our Enemies.

How Can I Teach Your Children Gentleness And Mercy To The Weak, And Reverence For Life, Which In Its Nakedness And Excess, Is Still A Gleam Of God's Omnipotence, When By Your Laws, Your Actions And Your Speech, You Contradict The Very Things I Teach?

It Is The Heart And Not The Brain, That To The Highest Doth Attain.

Round About What Is, Lies A Whole Mysterious World Of Might Be, A Psychological Romance Of Possibilities And Things That Do Not Happen.

The Laws Of Nature Are Just, But Terrible. There Is No Weak Mercy In Them. Cause And Consequence Are Inseparable And Inevitable.

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

Dost Thou Know What A Hero Is? Why, A Hero Is As Much As One Should Say, A Hero.

It Was A High Counsel That I Once Heard Given To A Young Person, - Always Do What You Are Afraid To Do.

Nothing That Is Can Pause Or Stay.

Every Human Heart Is Human.

Resolve And Thou Art Free.

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

Let Us Then, Be Up And Doing.

By Unseen Hands Uplifted In The Light Of Sunset, Yonder Solitary Cloud Floats, With Its White Apparel Blown Abroad, And Wafted Up To Heaven.

More And More Do I Feel, As I Advance In Life, How Little We Really Know Of Each Other. Friendship Seems To Me Like The Touch Of Musical-glasses--it Is Only Contact; But The Glasses Themselves, And Their Contents, Remain Quite Distinct And Unmingled.

Stars Of Earth, These Golden Flowers; Emblems Of Our Own Great Resurrection; Emblems Of The Bright And Better Land.

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!

Sweet Is The Air With The Budding Haws, And The Valley Stretching For Miles Below Is White With Blossoming Cherry-trees, As If Just Covered With Lighted Snow.

The Mind Of The Scholar, If You Would Have It Large And Liberal, Should Come In Contact With Other Minds. It Is Better That His Armor Should Be Somewhat Bruised By Rude Encounters Even, Than Hang Forever Rusting On The Wall.

Silently, One By One, In The Infinite Meadows Of Heaven, Blossomed The Lovely Stars, The Forget-me-nots Of The Angels.

But The Great Master Said, "i See No Best In Kind, But In Degree; I Gave A Various Gift To Each, To Charm, To Strengthen, And To Teach".

The Surest Pledge Of A Deathless Name Is The Silent Homage Of Thoughts Unspoken.

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 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.

Day Of The Lord, As All Our Days Should Be!

Gone Are The Birds That Were Our Summer Guests.

The Little I Have Seen Of The World Teaches Me To Look Upon The Errors Of Others In Sorrow, Not In Anger. When I Take The History Of One Poor Heart That Has Sinned And Suffered, And Represent To Myself The Struggles And Temptations It Has Passed Through, The Brief Pulsations Of Joy, The Feverish Inquietude Of Hope And Fear, The Pressure Of Want, The Desertion Of Friends, I Would Fain Leave The Erring Soul Of My Fellow-man With Him From Whose Hand It Came.

The Star Of The Unconquered Will, He Rises In My Breast, Serene, And Resolute, And Still, And Calm, And Self-possessed.

Love Is Sunshine, Hate Is Shadow, Life Is Checkered Shade And Sunshine.

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.

Love Makes Its Record In Deeper Colors As We Grow Out Of Childhood Into Manhood; As The Emperors Signed Their Names In Green Ink When Under Age, But When Of Age, In Purple.

How Can I Tell The Signals And The Signs By Which One Heart Another Heart Divines? How Can I Tell The Many Thousand Ways By Which It Keeps The Secret It Betrays?

It Was Autumn, And Incessant Piped The Quails From Shocks And Sheaves, And, Like Living Coals, The Apples Burned Among The Withering Leaves.

That Tree Is Very Old, But I Never Saw Prettier Blossoms On It Than It Now Bears. That Tree Grows New Wood Each Year. Like That Apple Tree, I Try To Grow A New Little Wood Each Year.

Morality Without Religion Is Only A Kind Of Dead Reckoning - An Endeavor To Find Our Place On A Cloudy Sea By Measuring The Distance We Have Run, But Without Any Observation Of The Heavenly Bodies.

O Little Souls! As Pure As White And Crystalline As Rays Of Light Direct From Heaven, Their Source Divine; Refracted Through The Mist Of Years, How Red My Setting Sun Appears, How Lurid Looks This Soul Of Mine!

O Thou Sculptor, Painter, Poet! Take This Lesson To Thy Heart: That Is Best Which Lieth Nearest; Shape From That Thy Work Of Art.

But Ah! What Once Has Been Shall Be No More! The Groaning Earth In Travail And In Pain Brings Forth Its Races, But Does Not Restore, And The Dead Nations Never Rise Again.

Some Critics Are Like Chimney-sweepers; They Put Out The Fire Below, And Frighten The Swallows From Their Nests Above; They Scrape A Long Time In The Chimney, Cover Themselves With Soot, And Bring Nothing Away But A Bag Of Cinders, And Then Sing From The Top Of The House As If They Had Built It.

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

I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day Their Old, Familiar Carols Play, And Wild And Sweet The Words Repeat Of Peace On Earth, Good-will To Men!

Thus At The Flaming Forge Of Life Our Fortunes Must Be Wrought; Thus On Its Sounding Anvil Shaped Each Burning Deed And Thought!

Much Must He Toil Who Serves The Immortal Gods.

Take Them, O Death! And Bear Away Whatever Thou Canst Call Thine Own! Thine Image, Stamped Upon This Clay, Doth Give Thee That, But That Alone!

Not In The Clamor Of The Crowded Street, Not In The Shouts And Plaudits Of The Throng, But In Ourselves, Are Triumph And Defeat.

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

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.

Every Man Has A Paradise Around Him Till He Sins, And The Angel Of An Accusing Conscience Drives Him From His Eden.

A Torn Jacket Is Soon Mended; But Hard Words Bruise The Heart Of A Child.

Books Are Sepulchres Of Thought.

Ships That Pass In The Night, And Speak Each Other In Passing, Only A Signal Shown, And A Distant Voice In The Darkness; So On The Ocean Of Life, We Pass And Speak One Another, Only A Look And A Voice, Then Darkness Again And A Silence.

Fair Words Gladden So Many A Heart.

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.

Sweet April! Many A Thought Is Wedded Unto Thee, As Hearts Are Wed; Nor Shall They Fail, Till, To Its Autumn Brought, Life's Golden Fruit Is Shed.

Ye Are Better Than All The Ballads That Ever Were Sung Or Said; For Ye Are Living Poems, And All The Rest Are Dead.

Ah, Yes, The Sea Is Still And Deep, All Things Within Its Bosom Sleep! A Single Step, And All Is O'er, A Plunge, A Bubble, And No More.

Nothing Is Or Can Be Accidental With God.

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.

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

The Emigrant's Way O'er The Western Desert Is Mark'd By Camp-fires Long Consum'd And Bones That Bleach In The Sunshine.

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

I Heard The Trailing Garments Of The Night Sweep Through Her Marble Halls! I Saw Her Sable Skirts All Fringed With Light From The Celestial Walls! I Felt Her Presence, By Its Spell Of Might, Stoop O'er Me From Above; The Calm, Majestic Presence Of The Night, As Of The One I Love.

Time Rides With The Old At A Great Pace. As Travellers On Swift Steeds See The Near Landscape Fly And Flow Behind Them, While The Remoter Fields And Dim Horizons Go With Them, And Seem Wheeling Round To Meet Them, So In Old Age Things Near Us Slip Away, And Distant Things Go With Us.

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.

Autumn Arrives Like A Warrior With The Stain Of Blood Upon His Brazen Mail. His Crimson Scarf Is Rent. His Scarlet Banner Drips With Gore. His Step Is Like A Flail Upon The Threshing Floor.

Burn, O Evening Hearth, And Waken Pleasant Visions, As Of Old! Though The House By Winds Be Shaken, Safe I Keep This Room Of Gold!

Every Man Has His Secret Sorrows.

A Boy's Will Is The Wind's Will, And The Thought's Of Youth Are Long, Long Thoughhts

I Will Be A Man Among Men; And No Longer A Dreamer Among Shadows. Henceforth Be Mine A Life Of Action And Reality! I Will Work In My Own Sphere, Nor Wish It Other Than It Is. This Alone Is Health And Happiness.

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!

Youth, Hope, And Love: To Build A New Life On A Ruined Life, To Make The Future Fairer Than The Past, And Make The Past Appear A Troubled Dream.

The Country Is Lyric, The Town Dramatic. When Mingled, They Make The Most Perfect Musical Drama.

Safe From Temptation, Safe From Sin's Pollution, She Lives Whom We Call Dead.

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.

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

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.

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

That Was The First Sound In The Song Of Love! Scarce More Than Silence Is, And Yet A Sound. Hands Of Invisible Spirits Touch The Strings Of That Mysterious Instrument, The Soul, And Play The Prelude Of Our Fate. We Hear The Voice Prophetic, And Are Not Alone.

Patience; Accomplish Thy Labor; Accomplish Thy Work Of Affection! Sorrow And Silence Are Strong, And Patient Endurance Is Godlike. Therefore Accomplish Thy Labor Of Love, Till The Heart Is Made Godlike, Purified, Strengthened, Perfected, And Rendered More Worthy Of Heaven.

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

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

Listen My Children And You Shall Hear, Of The Midnight Ride Of Paul Revere

A Solid Man Of Boston; A Comfortable Man With Dividends, And The First Salmon And The First Green Peas.

The Happy Should Not Insist Too Much Upon Their Happiness In The Presence Of The Unhappy.

To-morrow! The Mysterious, Unknown Guest, Who Cries To Me: "remember Barmecide, And Tremble To Be Happy With The Rest." And I Make Answer: "i Am Satisfied; I Dare Not Ask; I Know Not What Is Best; God Hath Already Said What Shall Betide.

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.

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