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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?

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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How Can I Teach

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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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?

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More From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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

To-day, To-morrow, Every Day, To Thousands The End Of The World Is Close At Hand. And Why Should We Fear It? We Walk Here, As It Were, In The Crypts Of Life; At Times, From The Great Cathedral Above Us, We Can Hear The Organ And The Chanting Choir; We See The Light Stream Through The Open Door, When Some Friend Goes Up Before Us; And Shall We Fear To Mount The Narrow Staircase Of The Grave That Leads Us Out Of This Uncertain Twilight Into Life Eternal?

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 True Poet Is A Friendly Man. He Takes To His Arms Even Cold And Inanimate Things, And Rejoices In His Heart.

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.

Each Morning Sees Some Task Begin, Each Evening Sees It Close.

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.

They Are Dead; But They Live In Each Patriot's Breast, And Their Names Are Engraven On Honor's Bright Crest.

For Next To Being A Great Poet Is The Power Of Understanding One.

Great Men Stand Like Solitary Towers In The City Of God.

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.

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

My Soul Is Full Of Longing For The Secret Of The Sea, And The Heart Of The Great Ocean Sends A Thrilling Pulse Through Me.

Where, Twisted Round The Barren Oak, The Summer Vine In Beauty Clung, And Summer Winds The Stillness Broke, The Crystal Icicle Is Hung.

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.

Fair Words Gladden So Many A Heart.

Life Is The Gift Of God, And Is Divine.

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

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

Yes, We Must Ever Be Friends; And Of All Who Offer You Friendship Let Me Be Ever The First, The Truest, The Nearest And Dearest.

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

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!

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

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

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

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.

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.

Youth Comes But Once A Life Time. Perhaps, But It Remains Strong In Many For Their Entire Lives.

A Millstone And The Human Heart Are Driven Ever Round, If They Have Nothing Else To Grind, They Must Themselves Be Ground.

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

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!

Think Not Because No Man Sees, Such Things Will Remain Unseen.

Love Gives Itself; It Is Not Bought.

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.

I Love Thee, As The Good Love Heaven.

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.

The Mind Of The Scholar, If He Would Leave It Large And Liberal, Should Come In Contact With Other Minds.

It Is Curious To Note The Old Sea-margins Of Human Thought! Each Subsiding Century Reveals Some New Mystery; We Build Where Monsters Used To Hide Themselves.

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!

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

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

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.

Many A Poem Is Marred By A Superfluous Verse.

When Thou Are Not Pleased, Beloved, Then My Heart Is Sad And Darkened, As The Shining River Darkens When The Clouds Drop Shadows On It! When Thou Smilest, My Beloved, Then My Troubled Heart Is Brightened, As In Sunshine Gleam The Ripples That The Cold Wind Makes In Rivers.

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

Time, Like A Preacher In The Days Of The Puritans, Turned The Hour-glass On His High Pulpit, The Church Belfry.

O Weary Hearts! O Slumbering Eyes! O Drooping Souls, Whose Destinies Are Fraught With Fear And Pain, Ye Shall Be Loved Again.

O Beautiful, Awful Summer Day, What Hast Thou Given, What Taken Away?

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

And So We Plough Along, As The Fly Said To The Ox.

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

Nor Deem The Irrevocable Past As Wholly Wasted, Wholly Vain, If, Rising On Its Wrecks, At Last To Something Nobler We Attain.

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.

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.

Mine Is The Month Of Roses; Yes, And Mine The Month Of Marriages! All Pleasant Sights And Scents, The Fragrance Of The Blossoming Vine, The Foliage Of The Valleys And The Heights. Mine Are The Longest Days, The Loveliest Nights; The Mower's Scythe Makes Music To My Ear; I Am The Mother Of All Dear Delights; I Am The Fairest Daughter Of The Year.

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

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

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?

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.

If We Could Read The Secret History Of Our Enemies.

I Promise Myself Great Pleasure From My Visit To England. You Know I Am To Stay With Dickens While In London; And Beside His Own Very Agreeable Society, I Shall Enjoy That Of The Most Noted Literary Men Of The Day, Which Will Be A Great Gratification To Me.

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.

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.

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

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.

The Nearer The Dawn The Darker The Night.

Softly The Evening Came /with The Sunset/.

Age Is Opportunity No Less Than Youth Itself.

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.

Our Pleasures And Our Discontents, Are Rounds By Which We May Ascend.

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

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?

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

And In The Wreck Of Noble Lives Something Immortal Still Survives.

Stay, Stay At Home, My Heart And Rest; Home-keeping Hearts Are Happiest.

All Sense Of Hearing And Of Sight Enfold In The Serene Delight And Quietude Of Sleep.

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

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!

A Stiff Letter Galls One Like A Stiff Shirt Collar -- Whilst A Sheet Garnished Here And There With A Careless Blot -- And Here And There A Dash -- But In The Main Full Of Excellent Matter, Is Like A Clever Fellow In A Dirty Shirt Whom We Value For The Good Humour He Brings With Him And Not For The Garb He Wears.

Defeat May Be Victory In Disguise.

Two Ways The Rivers Leap Down To Different Seas, And As They Roll Grow Deep And Still, And Their Majestic Presence Becomes A Benefaction To The Towns They Visit, Wandering Silently Among Them, Like Patriarchs Old Among Their Shining Tents.

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

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.

Be Noble In Every Thought And In Every Deed!

A Word That Has Been Said May Be Unsaid-it Is But Air. But When A Deed Is Done, It Cannot Be Undone, Nor Can Our Thoughts Reach Out To All The Mischiefs That May Follow.

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

Let Nothing Disturb Thee, Nothing Affright Thee; All Things Are Passing; God Never Changeth; Patient Endurance Attaineth To All Things; Who God Possesseth In Nothing Is Wanting; Alone God Sufficeth.

Weak Minds Make Treaties With The Passions They Cannot Overcome, And Try To Purchase Happiness At The Expense Of Principle; But The Resolute Will Of A Strong Man Scorns Such Means, And Struggles Nobly With His Foe To Achieve Great Deeds.

Perseverance Is A Great Element Of Success. If You Only Knock Long Enough And Loud Enough At The Gate, You Are Sure To Wake Up Somebody.

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?

If You Once Understand An Author's Character, The Comprehension Of His Writings Becomes Easy.

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

There Is No Grief Like The Grief That Does Not Speak.

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

Art Is The Gift Of God, And Must Be Used Unto His Glory.

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

Every Man Has His Secret Sorrows Which The World Knows Not; And Often Times We Call A Man Cold When He Is Only Sad.

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.

I Venerate Old Age; And I Love Not The Man Who Can Look Without Emotion Upon The Sunset Of Life, When The Dusk Of Evening Begins To Gather Over The Watery Eye, And The Shadows Of Twilight Grow Broader And Deeper Upon The Understanding.

Sail Forth Into The Sea Of Life, O Gentle, Loving, Trusting Wife, And Safe From All Adversity Upon The Bosom Of That Sea Thy Comings And Thy Goings Be! For Gentleness And Love And Trust Prevail O'er Angry Wave And Gust; And In The Wreck Of Noble Lives Something Immortal Still Survives.

And All The Air Is Filled With Pleasant Noise Of Waters

The Secret Studies Of An Author Are The Sunken Piers Upon Which Is To Rest The Bridge Of His Fame, Spanning The Dark Waters Of Oblivion. They Are Out Of Sight, But Without Them No Superstructure Can Stand Secure.

I Feel A Kind Of Reverence For The First Books Of Young Authors. There Is So Much Aspiration In Them, So Much Audacious Hope And Trembling Fear, So Much Of The Heart's History, That All Errors And Shortcomings Are For A While Lost Sight Of In The Amiable Self Assertion Of Youth.

Look, Then, Into Thine Heart, And Write!

A Sermon Is No Sermon In Which I Cannot Hear The Heartbeat.

He Looks The Whole World In The Face For He Owes Not Any Man.

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

Live Up To The Best That Is In You: Live Noble Lives, As You All May, In Whatever Condition You May Find Yourselves.

Self Improvement

Art Is The Child Of Nature; Yes, Her Darling Child, In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mother's Face, Her Aspect And Her Attitude, All Her Majestic Loveliness Chastened And Softened And Subdued Into A More Attractive Grace, And With A Human Sense Imbued. He Is The Greatest Artist, Then, Whether Of Pencil Or Of Pen, Who Follows Nature.

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.

Perhaps There Lives Some Dreamy Boy, Untaught In Schools, Some Graduate Of The Field Or Street, Who Shall Become A Master Of Art, An Admiral Sailing The High Seas Of Thought Fearless And First, And Steering With His Fleet For Lands Not Yet Laid Down In Any Chart.

Enthusiasm Begets Enthusiasm.

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

In Ourselves Are Triumph And Defeat.

Peace! And No Longer From Its Brazen Portals The Blast Of War's Great Organ Shakes The Skies! But Beautiful As Songs Of The Immortals, The Holy Melodies Of Love Arise.

Gone Are The Living, But The Dead Remain, And Not Neglected; For A Hand Unseen, Scattering Its Bounty Like A Summer Rain, Still Keeps Their Graves And Their Remembrance Green.

Let Us, Then, Be What We Are; Speak What We Think; And In All Things Keep Ourselves Loyal To Truth.

Wondrous Strong Are The Spells Of Fiction.

The Life Of Woman Is Full Of Woe, Toiling On And On And On, With Breaking Heart, And Tearful Eyes, The Secret Longings That Arise, Which This World Never Satisfies! Some More, Some Less, But Of The Whole Not One Quite Happy, No, Not One!

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

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.

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.

Into A World Unknown,-the Corner-stone Of A Nation!

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.

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!

You Would Attain To The Divine Perfection.

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.

Many Have Genius, But, Wanting Art, Are Forever Dumb. The Two Must Go Together To Form The Great Poet, Painter, Or Sculptor.

Torrent Of Light And River Of Air, Along Whose Bed The Glimmering Stars Are Seen, Like Gold And Silver Sands In Some Ravine Where Mountain Streams Have Left Their Channels Bare!

Let Him Not Boast Who Puts His Armor On As He Who Puts It Off, The Battle Done.

Life Hath Quicksands, Life Hath Snares!

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

Oh, What A Glory Doth This World Put On, For Him Who With A Fervent Heart Goes Forth Under The Bright And Glorious Sky, And Looks On Duties Well Performed, And Days Well Spent.

Ah, How Wonderful Is The Advent Of The Spring!—the Great Annual Miracle.... Which No Force Can Stay, No Violence Restrain, Like Love, That Wins Its Way And Cannot Be Withstood By Any Human Power, Because Itself Is Divine Power. If Spring Came But Once In A Century, Instead Of Once A Year, Or Burst Forth With The Sound Of An Earthquake, And Not In Silence, What Wonder And Expectation Would There Be In All Hearts To Behold The Miraculous Change!... We Are Like Children Who Are Astonished And Delighted Only By The Second-hand Of The Clock, Not By The Hour-hand.

Let Us Then, Be Up And Doing.

Ambition's Cradle Oftenest Is Its Grave

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 First Pressure Of Sorrow Crushes Out From Our Hearts The Best Wine; Afterwards The Constant Weight Of It Brings Forth Bitterness, The Taste And Stain From The Lees Of The Vat.

Books Are Sepulchres Of Thought.

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

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.

The Day Is Dark And Cold And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary.

From Labor There Shall Come Forth Rest.

Ah, Nothing Is Too Late, Till The Tired Heart Shall Cease To Palpitate.

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.

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

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.

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

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

History Casts Its Shadow Far Into The Land Of Song.

Men Of Genius Are Often Dull And Inert In Society; As The Blazing Meteor, When It Descends To Earth, Is Only A Stone.

The Everyday Cares And Duties, Which Men Call Drudgery, Are The Weights And Counterpoises Of The Clock Of Time, Giving Its Pendulum A True Vibration And Its Hands A Regular Motion; And When They Cease To Hang Upon Its Wheels, The Pendulum No Longer Swings, The Hands No Longer Move The Clock Stands Still.

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!

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

Learn To Labour And To Wait.

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

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

It Is Foolish To Pretend That One Is Fully Recovered From A Disappointed Passion. Such Wounds Always Leave A Scar.

What Seems To Us But Dim Funeral Tapers May Be Heaven's Distant Lamps.

Something The Heart Must Have To Cherish, Must Love And Joy And Sorrow Learn; Something With Passion Clasp, Or Perish And In Itself To Ashes Burn.

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

Through Woods And Mountain Passes The Winds, Like Anthems, Roll.

Is This Is A Dream? O, If It Be A Dream, Let Me Sleep On, And Do Not Wake Me Yet!

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.

Whoever Benefits His Enemy With Straightforward Intention That Man's Enemies Will Soon Fold Their Hands In Devotion.

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.

Ah, To Build, To Build! That Is The Noblest Art Of All The Arts. Painting And Sculpture Are But Images, Are Merely Shadows Cast By Outward Things On Stone Or Canvas, Having In Themselves No Separate Existence. Architecture, Existing In Itself, And Not In Seeming A Something It Is Not, Surpasses Them As Substance Shadow.

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.

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.

A Handful Of Red Sand From The Hot Clime Of Arab Deserts Brought, Within This Glass Becomes The Spy Of Time, The Minister Of Thought.

Our Hearts Are Lamps For Ever Burning.

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

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!

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

Ah! What Would The World Be To Us If The Children Were No More? We Should Dread The Desert Behind Us Worse Than The Dark Before.

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!

A Spirit Of Criticism, If Indulged In, Leads To A Censoriousness Of Disposition That Is Destructive Of All Nobler Feeling. The Man Who Lives To Find Faults Has A Miserable Mission.

The Natural Alone Is Permanent.

Many People Do Not Allow Their Principles To Take Root, But Pull Them Up Every Now And Then, As Children Do The Flowers They Have Planted, To See If They Are Growing.

Time Is The Life Of The Soul.

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting.

Today Is The Blocks With Which We Build.

Live In The Moment

And The Bright Faces Of My Young Companions Are Wrinkled Like My Own, Or Are No More.

Evil Is Only Good Perverted.

White Swan Of Cities Slumbering In Thy Nest . . . White Phantom City, Whose Untrodden Streets Are Rivers, And Whose Pavements Are The Shifting Shadows Of The Palaces And Strips Of Sky.

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.

Thought Takes Man Out Of Servitude, Into Freedom.

Ambition Is So Powerful A Passion In The Human Breast, That However High We Reach We Are Never Satisfied.

What Is Time? The Shadow On The Dial, The Striking Of The Clock, The Running Of The Sand, Day And Night, Summer And Winter, Months, Years, Centuries-these Are But Arbitrary And Outward Signs, The Measure Of Time, Not Time Itself. Time Is The Life Of The Soul.

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.

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

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

These Stars Of Earth, These Golden Flowers.

Art Is The Child Of Nature.

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

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

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.

Not Chance Of Birth Or Place Has Made Us Friends, Being Oftentimes Of Different Tongues And Nations, But The Endeavor For The Selfsame Ends, With The Same Hopes, And Fears, And Aspirations.

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

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