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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.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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O Flower-de-luce, Bloom On,

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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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.

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More From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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 Am Weary Of Your Quarrels, Weary Of Your Wars And Bloodshed, Weary Of Your Prayers For Vengeance, Of Your Wranglings And Dissensions

How Like They Are To Human Things!

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.

For His Heart Was In His Work, And The Heart Giveth Grace Unto Every Art.

Resolve And Thou Art Free.

Much Must He Toil Who Serves The Immortal Gods.

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

Perseverance Is A Great Element Of Success.

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

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.

Your Silent Tents Of Green We Deck With Fragrant Flowers; Yours Has The Suffering Been, The Memory Shall Be Ours.

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

The Nearer The Dawn The Darker The Night.

There Is Nothing Perfectly Secure But Poverty.

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

It Takes Less Time To Do A Thing Right, Than It Does To Explain Why You Did It Wrong.

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

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.

Read From Some Humbler Poet, Whose Songs Gushed From His Heart, As Showers From The Clouds Of Summer, Or Tears From The Eyelids Start.

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!

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.

Let The Dead Past Bury Its Dead!

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

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

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

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

Oh, How Short Are The Days! How Soon The Night Overtakes Us!

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

The Rapture Of Pursuing Is The Prize The Vanquished Gain.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

None But Yourself Who Are Your Greatest Foe.

A Coquette Is A Young Lady Of More Beauty Than Sense, More Accomplishments Than Learning, More Charms Not Person Than Graces Of Mind, More Admirers Than Friends, Mole Fools Than Wise Men For Attendants.

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

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

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.

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

Books Are Sepulchres Of Thought.

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.

Defeat May Be Victory In Disguise.

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

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

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

What Discord We Should Bring Into The Universe If Our Prayers Were All Answered. Then We Should Govern The World And Not God. And Do You Think We Should Govern It Better? It Gives Me Only Pain When I Hear The Long, Wearisome Petitions Of People Asking For They Know Not What. . . . Thanks-giving With A Full Heart-and The Rest Silence And Submission To The Divine Will!

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.

Softly The Evening Came /with The Sunset/.

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

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.

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

The Sentence Of The First Murderer Was Pronounced By The Supreme Judge Of The Universe. Was It Death? No, It Was Life. 'a Fugitive And A Vagabond Shalt Thou Be In The Earth'; And 'whosoever Slayeth Cain, Vengeance Shall Be Taken On Him Sevenfold.

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

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.

Sculpture Is More Than Painting. It Is Greater To Raise The Dead To Life Than To Create Phantoms That Seem To Live.

Tomorrow Is The Mysterious, Unknown Guest.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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!

Look, Then, Into Thine Heart, And Write!

Every Human Heart Is Human.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

An Enlightened Mind Is Not Hoodwinked; It Is Not Shut Up In A Gloomy Prison Till It Thinks The Walls Of Its Dungeon The Limits Of The Universe, And The Reach Of Its Own Chain The Outer Verge Of Intelligence.

To Be Infatuated With The Power Of One's Own Intellect Is An Accident Which Seldom Happens But To Those Who Are Remarkable For The Want Of Intellectual Power. Whenever Nature Leaves A Hole In A Person's Mind, She Generally Plasters It Over With A Thick Coat Of Self-conceit.

The Secret Anniversaries Of The Heart.

Nothing That Is Can Pause Or Stay.

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.

Time Has A Doomsday Book, Upon Whose Pages He Is Continually Recording Illustrious Names. But As Often As A New Name Is Written There, An Old One Disappears. Only A Few Stand In Illuminated Characters Never To Be Effaced.

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.

Rule By Patience, Laughing Water!

Each Day Is A Branch Of The Tree Of Life Laden Heavily With Fruit. If We Lie Down Lazily Beneath It, We May Starve; But If We Shake The Branches, Some Of The Fruit Will Fall For Us.

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

Procrastination

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.

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

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

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.

In Ourselves Are Triumph And Defeat.

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

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

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.

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!

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

The Sky Is Filled With Stars, Invisible By Day.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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!

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

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

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.

Balder The Beautiful Is Dead, Is Dead!

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

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.

O Lovely Eyes Of Azure, Clear As The Waters Of A Brook That Run Limpid And Laughing In The Summer Sun!

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

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

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?

Were A Star Quenched On High,for Ages Would Its Light,still Travelling Downward From The Sky,shine On Our Mortal Sight. So When A Great Man Dies,for Years Beyond Our Ken,the Light He Leaves Behind Him Liesupon The Paths Of Men.

Life Hath Quicksands, Life Hath Snares!

Truly, This World Can Go On Without Us, If We Would But Think So.

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.

Ambition's Cradle Oftenest Is Its Grave

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

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

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

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.

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

I Love Thee, As The Good Love Heaven.

Nothing Is Or Can Be Accidental With God.

Youth Comes But Once In A Lifetime.

O Music! Language Of The Soul, Of Love, Of God To Man; Bright Beam From Heaven Thrilling, That Lightens Sorrow's Weight.

You Would Attain To The Divine Perfection.

The Soul Never Grows Old.

Some Must Follow And Some Command, Through All Are Made Oclay.

Our Faith Triumphant O'er Our Fears.

O Holy Trust! O Endless Sense Of Rest! Like The Beloved John To Lay His Head Upon The Saviour's Breast, And Thus To Journey On!

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!

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

Simplicity Is The Character Of The Spring Of Life, Costliness Becomes Its Autumn; But A Neatness And Purity, Like That Of The Snow-drop Or Lily Of The Valley, Is The Peculiar Fascination Of Beauty, To Which It Lends Enchantment, And Gives What Amiability Is To The Mind.

Build Me Straight. O Worthy Master! Staunch And Strong, A Goodly Vessel That Shall Laugh At All Disaster, And With Wave And Whirlwind Wrestle!

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.

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!

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!

In The Long, Sleepless Watches Of The Night, A Gentle Face The Face Of One Long Dead Looks At Me From The Wall, Where Round Its Head The Night-lamp Casts A Halo Of Pale Light.

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

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?

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

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

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.

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

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.

I See, But Cannot Reach, The Height That Lies Forever In The Light.

Let Us Be Merciful As Well As Just.

A Noble Type Of Good. Heroic Womanhood.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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!

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

The 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!

Death Is Better Than Disease.

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

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

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

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.

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!

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

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

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.

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting.

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.

When She Had Passed, It Seemed Like The Ceasing Of Exquisite Music.

From Labor There Shall Come Forth Rest.

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

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

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.

People Demand Freedom Only When They Have No Power.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

At Daybreak, On The Bleak Sea-beach, A Fisherman Stood Aghast, To See The Form Of A Maiden Fair, Lashed Close To A Drifting Mast.

To Be Strong Is To Be Happy!

Glorious Indeed Is The World Of God Around Us, But More Glorious The World Of God Within Us.

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.

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

Between The Dark And The Daylight, When The Night Is Beginning To Lower, Comes A Pause In The Day's Occupations, That Is Known As The Children's Hour.

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