Background Image

...

Love Is The Root Of Creation; God's Essence; Worlds Without Number Lie In His Bosom Like Children; He Made Them For This Purpose Only. Only To Love And To Be Loved Again.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

...

Please Wait....
Translating....

Love Is The Root

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

...

Love Is The Root Of Creation; God's Essence; Worlds Without Number Lie In His Bosom Like Children; He Made Them For This Purpose Only. Only To Love And To Be Loved Again.

Views: 4

Topic

More From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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?

The Setting Of A Great Hope Is Like The Setting Of The Sun. The Brightness Of Our Life Is Gone.

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

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

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 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.

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

Will Without Power Is Like Children Playing At Soldiers.

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

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

Great Is The Art Of Beginning, But Greater Is The Art Of Ending.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

The Soul...is Audible, Not Visible.

Make Not Thyself The Judge Of Any Man.

Wisely Improve The Present. It Is Thine.

Fear Of The Future

Future And Present

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

He Had Mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic Mittens Made Of Deer-skin; When Upon His Hands He Wore Them, He Could Smite The Rocks Asunder, He Could Grind Them Into Powder.

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!

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.

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.

Music Is The Universal Language Of Mankind.

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.

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

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.

So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest.

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

Know How Sublime A Thing It Is To Suffer And Be Strong.

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.

Each Morning Sees Some Task Begun, Each Evening Sees It Close; Something Attempted, Something Done, Has Earned A Night's Repose.

Being All Fashioned Of The Self-same Dust, Let Us Be Merciful As Well As Just

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.

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.

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

Gone Are The Birds That Were Our Summer Guests.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Ah, The Souls Of Those That Die Are But Sunbeams Lifted Higher.

If We Could Read The Secret History Of Our Enemies We Should Find In Each Man's Life Sorrow And Suffering Enough To Disarm All Hostility.

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.

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.

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

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

I Do Not Love Thee Less For What Is Done, And Cannot Be Undone. Thy Very Weakness Hath Brought Thee Nearer To Me, And Henceforth My Love Will Have A Sense Of Pity In It, Making It Less A Worship Than Before.

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.

Man Is Always More Than He Can Know Of Himself; Consequently, His Accomplishments, Time And Again, Will Come As A Surprise To Him.

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.

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

How Absolute And Omnipotent Is The Silence Of Night! And Yet The Stillness Seems Almost Audible! From All The Measureless Depths Of Air Around Us Comes A Half-sound, A Half-whisper, As If We Could Hear The Crumbling And Falling Away Of Earth And All Created Things, In The Great Miracle Of Nature, Decay And Reproduction, Ever Beginning, Never Ending,--the Gradual Lapse And Running Of The Sand In The Great Hour-glass Of Time.

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting.

The Rapture Of Pursuing Is The Prize The Vanquished Gain.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

Let The Dead Past Bury Its Dead!

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

My Book And Heart Shall Never Part.

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

And When She Was Good She Was Very Very Good. But When She Was Bad She Was Horrid.

Welcome, My Old Friend, Welcome To A Foreign Fireside.

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

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

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

As A Fond Mother, When The Day Is O'er, Leads By The Hand Her Little Child To Bed, Half Willing, Half Reluctant To Be Led, And Leave His Broken Playthings On The Floor. Still Gazing At Them Through The Open Door, Nor Wholly Reassured And Comforted By Promises Of Others In Their Stead Which, The More Splendid, May Not Please Him More; 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.

The Things That Have Been And Shall Be No More, The Things That Are, And That Hereafter Shall Be, The Things That Might Have Been, And Yet Were Not, The Fading Twilight Of Joys Departed.

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

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

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.

My Own Thoughts Are My Companions.

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 Atmosphere Breathes Rest And Comfort, And The Many Chambers Seem Full Of Welcomes.

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.

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

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

Love Is A Bodily Shape; And Christian Works Are No More Than Animate Faith And Love, As Flowers Are The Animate Springtide.

Do Not Delay, Do Not Delay: The Golden Moments Fly!

Procrastination

The Men That Women Marry, And Why They Marry Them, Will Always Be A Marvel And A Mystery To The World.

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

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.

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

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 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.

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

Silence Is A Great Peacemaker.

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.

The Sun Is Set; And In His Latest Beams Yon Little Cloud Of Ashen Gray And Gold, Slowly Upon The Amber Air Unrolled, The Falling Mantle Of The Prophet Seems.

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.

A Thought Often Makes Us Hotter Than A Fire.

Death Is Better Than Disease.

Every Man Must Patiently Bide His Time. He Must Wait -- Not In Listless Idleness But In Constant, Steady, Cheerful Endeavors, Always Willing And Fulfilling And Accomplishing His Task, That When The Occasion Comes He May Be Equal To The Occasion.

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

The Greatest Firmness Is The Greatest Mercy.

People Demand Freedom Only When They Have No Power.

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

O Summer Day Beside The Joyous Sea! O Summer Day So Wonderful And White, So Full Of Gladness And So Full Of Pain! Forever And Forever Shalt Thou Be To Some The Gravestone Of A Dead Delight, To Some The Landmark Of A New Domain.

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.

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

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

Now To Rivulets From The Mountains Point The Rods Of Fortune-tellers; Youth Perpetual Dwells In Fountains, Not In Flasks, And Casks, And Cellars.

Resolve And Thou Art Free.

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.

These Stars Of Earth, These Golden Flowers.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

To Be Seventy Years Old Is Like Climbing The Alps. You Reach A Snow-crowned Summit, And See Behind You The Deep Valley Stretching Miles And Miles Away, And Before You Other Summits Higher And Whiter, Which You May Have Strength To Climb, Or May Not. Then You Sit Down And Meditate And Wonder Which It Will Be.

Fair Words Gladden So Many A Heart.

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")

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!

Our Hearts Are Lamps For Ever Burning.

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

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 Love Of Learning, The Sequestered Nooks, And All The Sweet Serenity Of Books.

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?

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.

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

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.

Each New Epoch In Life Seems An Encounter. There Is A Tussle And A Cloud Of Dust, And We Come Out Of It Triumphant Or Crest-fallen, According As We Have Borne Ourselves.

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

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

I Dislike An Eye That Twinkles Like A Star. Those Only Are Beautiful Which, Like The Planets, Have A Steady Lambent Light, Are Luminous, But Not Sparkling.

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

Age Is Opportunity No Less Than Youth Itself.

But The Good Deed, Through The Ages Living In Historic Pages, Brighter Grows And Gleams Immortal, Unconsumed By Moth Or Rust.

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

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.

To Say The Least, A Town Life Makes One More Tolerant And Liberal In One's Judgment Of Others.

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

Take This Sorrow To Thy Heart And Make It Part Of Thee, And It Shall Nourish Thee Till Thou Art Strong Again.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

How In The Turmoil Of Life Can Love Stand, Where There Is Not One Heart, And One Mouth And One Hand.

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.

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

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

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.

Life Is The Gift Of God, And Is Divine.

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

It Is Folly To Pretend That One Ever Wholly Recovers From A Disappointed Passion. Such Wounds Always Leave A Scar. There Are Faces I Can Never Look Upon Without Emotion, There Are Names I Can Never Hear Spoken Without Almost Starting.

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.

Out Of The Shadows Of Night The World Rolls Into Light.

This Song Of Mine Is A Song Of The Vine To Be Sung By The Glowing Embers Of Wayside Inns, When The Rain Begins To Darken The Drear Novembers. And For The Richest And Best Is The Wind Of The West That Grows By The Beautiful River; Whose Sweet Perfume Fills All The Room With A Bension On The Giver. And When You Ask One Friend To Dine, Give Hime Your Best Wine! When You Ask Two, The Second Best Will Do.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

The Mormons Make The Marriage Ring, Like The Ring Of Saturn, Fluid, Not Solid, And Keep It In Its Place By Numerous Satellites.

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.

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.

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

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.

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!

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

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

And All The Air Is Filled With Pleasant Noise Of Waters

In Old Age Our Bodies Are Worn-out Instruments, On Which The Soul Tries In Vain To Play The Melodies Of Youth. But Because The Instrument Has Lost Its Strings, Or Is Out Of Tune, It Does Not Follow That The Musician Has Lost His Skill.

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.

Time Is The Life Of The Soul.

Nothing Is Or Can Be Accidental With God.

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!

All Things Come Round To Him Who Will But Wait.

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

Fame Comes Only When Deserved, And Then Is As Inevitable As Destiny, For It Is Destiny.

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

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.

Rule By Patience, Laughing Water!

Alas! It Is Not Till Time, With Reckless Hand, Has Torn Out Half The Leaves From The Book Of Human Life To Light The Fires Of Passion With From Day To Day, That Man Begins To See That The Leaves Which Remain Are Few In Number.

All Things Are Symbols.

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

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall.

Labor With What Zeal We Will, Something Still Remains Undone, Something Uncompleted Still Waits The Rising Of The Sun.

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

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

Evil Is Only Good Perverted.

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

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

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!

Sail On, O Ship Of State! Sail On, O Union, Strong And Great.

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

The Bravest Are The Tenderest.

Trending Author

Josefina Vazquez Mota

Jose Eduardo Dos Santos

Category