Background Image

...

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.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

...

Please Wait....
Translating....

I Venerate Old Age;

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

...

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.

Views: 4

Topic

More From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Morning Pouring Everywhere, Its Golden Glory On The Air.

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

Shepherds At The Grange, Where The Babe Was Born, Sang With Many A Change, Christmas Carols Until Morn.

It Has Done Me Good To Be Somewhat Parched By The Heat And Drenched By The Rain Of Life.

When Christ Ascended Triumphantly From Star To Star He Left The Gates Of Heaven Ajar.

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

Today Is The Blocks With Which We Build.

Live In The Moment

The Twilight That Surrounds The Border-land Of Old Romance.

Talk Not Of Wasted Affection, Affection Never Was Wasted; If It Enrich Not The Heart Of Another, Its Waters, Returning Back To Their Springs, Like The Rain, Shall Fill Them Full Of Refreshment; That Which The Fountain Sends Forth Returns Again To The Fountain.

There Is A Reaper, Whose Name Is Death, And, With His Sickle Keen, He Reaps The Bearded Grain At A Breath, And The Flowers That Grow Between.

Don Quixote Thought He Could Have Made Beautiful Bird-cages And Toothpicks If His Brain Had Not Been So Full Of Ideas Of Chivalry. Most People Would Succeed In Small Things If They Were Not Troubled With Great Ambitions.

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!

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.

Southward With Fleet Of Ice Sailed The Corsair Death; Wild And Fast Blew The Blast, And The East-wind Was His Breath.

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.

They Who Go Feel Not The Pain Of Parting; It Is They Who Stay Behind That Suffer.

The Setting Of A Great Hope Is Like The Setting Of The Sun. The Brightness Of Our Life Is Gone. Shadows Of Evening Fall Around Us, And The World Seems But A Dim Reflection - Itself A Broader Shadow. We Look Forward Into The Coming Lonely Night. The Soul Withdraws Into Itself. Then Stars Arise, And The Night Is Holy.

Every Great Poem Is In Itself Limited By Necessity, But In Its Suggestions Unlimited And Infinite.

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

Love Makes Its Record In Deeper Colors As We Grow Out Of Childhood Into Manhood.

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

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

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

Hope Has As Many Lives As A Cat Or A King.

If A Woman Shows Too Often The Medusa's Head, She Must Not Be Astonished If Her Lover Is Turned Into Stone.

In December Ring Every Day The Chimes; Loud The Gleemen Sing In The Streets Their Merry Rhymes. Let Us By The Fire Ever Higher Sing Them Till The Night Expire!

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.

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.

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.

Simplicity In Character, In Manners, In Style; In All Things The Supreme Excellence Is Simplicity.

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.

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!

Art Is The Child Of Nature.

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.

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

Inspirational Love

History Casts Its Shadow Far Into The Land Of Song.

Art Is The Child Of Nature In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mothers Face.

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

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

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.

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

See Yonder Little Cloud, That, Borne Aloft So Tenderly By The Wind, Floats Fast Away Over The Snowy Peaks!

The Sky Is Filled With Stars, Invisible By Day.

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

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.

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.

And When The Echoes Had Ceased, Like A Sense Of Pain Was The Silence.

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.

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

The Counterfeit And Counterpart Of Nature Is Reproduced In Art.

Counterfeit Money

Trust No Future, However Pleasant! Let The Dead Past Bury Its Dead! Act -- Act In The Living Present! Heart Within And God Overhead.

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls The Burial-ground God's-acre! It Is Just; It Consecrates Each Grave Within Its Walls, And Breathes A Benison O'er The Sleeping Dust.

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

God Sifted A Whole Nation That He Might Send Choice Grain Over Into This Wilderness.

The Swallow Is Come! The Swallow Is Come! O, Fair Are The Seasons, And Light Are The Days That She Brings, With Her Dusky Wings, And Her Bosom Snowy White!

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.

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.

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

What Else Remains For Me? Youth, Hope And Love; To Build A New Life On A Ruined Life.

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

Tis Always Morning Somewhere.

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.

Does Not All The Blood Within Me Leap To Meet Thee, Leap To Meet Thee, As The Springs To Meet The Sunshine.

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.

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.

Silence Is A Great Peacemaker.

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.

All Your Strength In Is Your Union. All Your Danger Is In Discord. Therefore Be At Peace Henceforward, And As Brothers Live Together.

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

I Love Thee, As The Good Love Heaven.

Sail On Ship Of State, Sail On, I Union, Strong And Great! Humanity With All Its Fears, With All Its Hopes Of Future Years, Is Hanging On Thy Fate!

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

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

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

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.

Defeat May Be Victory In Disguise.

Be Thy Sleep Silent As Night Is, And As Deep.

Silence And Solitude, The Soul's Best Friends.

Very Hot And Still The Air Was, Very Smooth The Gliding River, Motionless The Sleeping Shadows.

O, Though Oft Oppressed And Lonely, All My Fears Are Laid Aside, If I But Remember Only Such As These Have Lived And Died!

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

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

Life Is The Gift Of God, And Is Divine.

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

Critics Are Sentinels In The Grand Army Of Letters, Stationed At The Corners Of Newspapers And Reviews, To Challenge Every New Author.

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.

The Greatest Firmness Is The Greatest Mercy.

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.

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

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.

In Ourselves Are Triumph And Defeat.

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

People Demand Freedom Only When They Have No Power.

No One Is So Accursed By Fate, No One So Utterly Desolate, But Some Heart Though Unknown Responds Unto His Own.

Ah, How Good It Feels! The Hand Of An Old Friend.

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

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.

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.

People Of A Lively Imagination Are Generally Curious, And Always So When A Little In Love.

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.

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.

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

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

Tomorrow Is The Mysterious, Unknown Guest.

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.

"do Not Fear! Heaven Is As Near," He Said, "by Water As By Land!"

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

Then Fell Upon The House A Sudden Gloom, A Shadow On Those Features Fair And Thin. And Softly, From The Hushed And Darkened Room, Two Angels Issued, Where But One Went In.

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 Strength Of Criticism Lies In The Weakness Of The Thing Criticized.

The Heaven Of Poetry And Romance Still Lies Around Us And Within Us.

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

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".

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

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

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

Love One Another

A Great Sorrow, Like A Mariner's Quadrant, Brings The Sun At Noon Down To The Horizon, And We Learn Where We Are On The Sea Of Life.

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.

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.

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

I Saw The Long Line Of The Vacant Shore, The Sea-weed And The Shells Upon The Sand, And The Brown Rocks Left Bare On Every Hand, As If The Ebbing Tide Would Flow No More.

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

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

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.

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

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!

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

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

Sang In Tones Of Deep Emotion Songs Of Love And Songs Of Longing.

Success Is Not Something To Wait For, It Is Something To Work For.

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

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

Let Us Labor For An Inward Stillness-- An Inward Stillness And An Inward Healing. That Perfect Silence Where The Lips And Heart Are Still, And We No Longer Entertain Our Own Imperfect Thoughts And Vain Opinions, But God Alone Speaks To Us And We Wait In Singleness Of Heart That We May Know His Will, And In The Silence Of Our Spirits, That We May Do His Will And Do That Only

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

My Own Thoughts Are My Companions.

It Is Difficult To Know At What Moment Love Begins; It Is Less Difficult To Know That It Has Begun.

Fortune Comes Well To All That Comes Not Late.

And The Night Shall Be Filled With Music, And The Cares, That Infest The Day, Shall Fold Their Tents Like The Arabs, And Silently Steal Away.

Life Like An Empty Dream Flits By.

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

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.

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!

Sunday Is The Golden Clasp That Binds Together The Volume Of The Week.

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.

How Beautiful Is The Rain! After The Dust And The Heat, In The Broad And Fiery Street, In The Narrow Lane, How Beautiful Is The Rain!

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.

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

There Are Two Angels That Attend Unseen Each One Of Us, And In Great Books Record Our Good And Evil Deeds. He Who Writes Down The Good Ones, After Every Action Closes His Volume, And Ascends With It To God. The Other Keeps His Dreadful Day-book Open Till Sunset, That We May Repent; Which Doing, The Record Of The Action Fades Away, And Leaves A Line Of White Across The Page. Now If My Act Be Good, As I Believe It, It Cannot Be Recalled. It Is Already Sealed Up In Heaven, As A Good Deed Accomplished. The Rest Is Yours.

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.

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

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.

No Tears Dim The Sweet Look That Nature Wears.

Dead He Is Not, But Departed, For The Artist Never Dies.

To Be Strong Is To Be Happy!

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

Magnificent Autumn! He Comes Not Like A Pilgrim, Clad In Russet Weeds; Not Like A Hermit, Clad In Gray; But Like A Warrior With The Stain Of Blood In His Brazen Mail.

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 Best Thing One Can Do When It's Raining Is To Let It Rain.

Chill Air And Wintry Winds! My Ear Has Grown Familiar With Your Song; I Hear It In The Opening Year, I Listen, And It Cheers Me Long.

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.

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?

Make Not Thyself The Judge Of Any Man.

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.

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

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.

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

Then From The Neighboring Thicket The Mocking-bird, Wildest Of Singers, Swinging Aloft On A Willow Spray That Hung O'er The Water, Shook From His Little Throat Such Floods Of Delirious Music, That The Whole Air And The Woods And The Waves Seemed Silent To Listen.

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!

Fame Grows Like A Tree If It Have The Principle Of Growth In It; The Accumulated Dews Of Ages Freshen Its Leaves.

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

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

Sometimes We May Learn More From A Man's Errors, Than From His Virtues.

Stay, Stay At Home, My Heart And Rest; Home-keeping Hearts Are The Happiest, For Those That Wander They Know Not Where Are Full Of Trouble And Full Of Care; To Stay At Home Is Best.

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

The Bells Themselves Are The Best Of Preachers, Their Brazen Lips Are Learned Teachers, From Their Pulpits Of Stone, In The Upper Air, Sounding Aloft, Without Crack Or Flaw, Shriller Than Trumpets Under The Law, Now A Sermon And Now A Prayer.

Then Read From The Treasured Volume The Poem Of Thy Choice, And Lend To The Rhyme Of The Poet The Beauty Of Thy Voice.

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

In The Life Of Every Man There Are Sudden Transitions Of Feeling, Which Seem Almost Miraculous. At Once, As If Some Magician Had Touched The Heavens And The Earth, The Dark Clouds Melt Into The Air, The Wind Falls, And Serenity Succeeds The Storm. The Causes Which Produce These Changes May Have Been Long At Work Within Us, But The Changes Themselves Are Instantaneous, And Apparently Without Sufficient Cause.

Look Not Mournfully Into The Past, It Comes Not Back Again. Wisely Improve The Present, It Is Thine. Go Forth To Meet The Shadowy Future Without Fear And With A Manly Heart.

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

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

For Bells Are The Voice Of The Church; They Have Tones That Touch And Search The Hearts Of Young And Old.

To Be Left Alone, And Face To Face With My Own Crime, Had Been Just Retribution.

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

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

Rule By Patience, Laughing Water!

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

The Highest Exercise Of Imagination Is Not To Devise What Has No Existence, But Rather To Perceive What Really Exists, Though Unseen By The Outward Eye-not Creation, But Insight.

Trouble Is The Next Best Thing To Enjoyment; There Is No Fate In The World So Horrible As To Have No Share In Either Its Joys Or Sorrows.

An Angel Visited The Green Earth, And Took A Flower Away.

Everyone Says That Forgiveness Is A Lovely Idea Until He Has Something To Forgive.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

With Useless Endeavour Forever, Forever, Is Sisyphus Rolling His Stone Up The Mountain!

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

Like Black Hulks The Shadows Of The Great Trees Ride At Anchor On The Billowy Sea Of Grass.

Trending Author

Category