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

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Sweet April! Many A

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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

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More From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

But Oftentimes Celestial Benedictions Assume This Dark Disguise.

Life Hath Quicksands, Life Hath Snares!

Let Us Be Merciful As Well As Just.

When One Is Truly In Love, One Not Only Says It, But Shows It.

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

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!

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

Love One Another

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

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

History Casts Its Shadow Far Into The Land Of Song.

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

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

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.

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

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.

O Suffering, Sad Humanity! O Ye Afflicted Ones, Who Lie Steeped To The Lips In Misery, Longing, Yet Afraid To Die, Patient, Though Sorely Tried!

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

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

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.

Where'er A Noble Deed Is Wrought, Where'er Is Spoken A Noble Thought, Our Hearts In Glad Surprise To Higher Levels Rise.

For In The Night, Unseen, A Single Warrior, In Sombre Harness Mailed, Dreaded Of Man, And Surnamed The Destroyer, The Rampart Wall Has Scaled. He Passed Into The Chamber Of The Sleeper, The Dark And Silent Room, And As He Entered, Darker Grew, And Deeper, The Silence And The Gloom.

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.

I Love Thee, As The Good Love Heaven.

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.

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.

In Youth All Doors Open Outward; In Old Age All Open Inward.

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

Every Human Heart Is Human.

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.

Resolve And Thou Art Free.

Most People Would Succeed In Small Things If They Were Not Troubled With Great Ambitions.

How Beautiful Is Youth! How Bright It Gleams With Its Illusions, Aspirations, Dreams! Book Of Beginnings, Story Without End, Each Maid A Heroine, And Each Man A Friend!

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

Then Followed That Beautiful Season... Summer.... Filled Was The Air With A Dreamy And Magical Light; And The Landscape Lay As If New Created In All The Freshness Of Childhood.

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

Art Is The Child Of Nature.

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

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.

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!

Spake Full Well, In Language Quaint And Olden, One Who Dwelleth By The Castled Rhine, When He Called The Flowers, So Blue And Golden, Stars, That In Earth's Firmament Do Shine.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

Love Keeps The Cold Out Better Than A Cloak.

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

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

Many Critics Are Like Woodpeckers, Who, Instead Of Enjoying The Fruit And Shadow Of A Tree, Hop Incessantly Around The Trunk, Pecking Holes In The Bark To Discover Some Little Worm Or Other.

Look, Then, Into Thine Heart, And Write!

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.

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!

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

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

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.

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

What Discord Should We 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?

Men Are Four; He Who Knows And Knows Not That He Knows. He Is Asleep; Wake Him. He Who Knows Not And Knows Not That He Knows Not. He Is A Fool; Shun Him. He Who Knows Not And Knows That He Knows Not. He Is A Child; Teach Him. He Who Knows And Knows That He Knows. He Is A King; Follow Him. 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.

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

Sculpture Is More Divine, And More Like Nature, That Fashions All Her Works In High Relief, And That Is Sculpture. This Vast Ball, The Earth, Was Moulded Out Of Clay, And Baked In Fire; Men, Women, And All Animals That Breathe Are Statues, And Not Paintings.

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.

Softly The Evening Came /with The Sunset/.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

One Half The World Must Sweat And Groan That The Other Half May Dream.

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

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

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

God's Voice Was Not In The Earthquake, Not In The Fire, Nor The Storm, But It Was In The Whispering Breezes.

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!

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

Dreams Or Illusions, Call Them What You Will, They Lift Us From The Commonplace Of Life To Better Things.

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

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

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!

Many Readers Judge Of The Power Of A Book By The Shock It Gives Their Feelings.

The Heart, Like The Mind, Has A Memory. And In It Are Kept The Most Precious Keepsakes.

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?

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

The Secret Anniversaries Of The Heart.

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

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.

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.

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.

Time Is The Life Of The Soul.

It Is Lucifer, The Son Of Mystery; And Since God Suffers Him To Be, He Too, Is God's Minister, And Labors For Some Good By Us Not Understood.

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.

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

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It. I Stand In Awe Of My Own Opinion. The Secret Demerits Of Which We Alone, Perhaps, Are Conscious, Are Often More Difficult To Bear Than Those Which Have Been Publicly Censured In Us, And Thus In Some Degree Atoned For.

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

Many A Poem Is Marred By A Superfluous Verse.

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

The World Loves A Spice Of Wickedness.

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

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!

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

Our Hearts Are Lamps For Ever Burning.

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.

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.

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

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

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting.

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

Perseverance Is A Great Element Of Success.

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!

Even He That Died For Us Upon The Cross, In The Last Hour, In The Unutterable Agony Of Death, Was Mindful Of His Mother, As If To Teach Us That This Holy Love Should Be Our Last Worldly Thought - The Last Point Of Earth From Which The Soul Should Take Its Flight For Heaven.

The Bravest Are The Tenderest.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

There Is A Beautiful Spirit Breathing Now Its Mellowed Richness On The Clustered Trees, And, From A Beaker Full Of Richest Dyes, Pouring New Glory On The Autumn Woods, And Dipping In Warm Light The Pillared Clouds. Morn On The Mountain, Like A Summer Bird, Lifts Up Her Purple Wing, And In The Vales The Gentle Wind, A Sweet And Passionate Wooer, Kisses The Blushing Leaf, And Stirs Up Life Within The Solemn Woods Of Ash Deep-crimsoned, And Silver Beech, And Maple Yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, Like A Faint Old Man, Sits Down By The Wayside A-weary.

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!

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

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

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

Enthusiasm Begets Enthusiasm.

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

Oh, How Beautiful Is The Summer Night, Which Is Not Night, But A Sunless, Yet Unclouded, Day, Descending Upon Earth With Dews And Shadows And Refreshing Coolness! How Beautiful The Long Mild Twilight, Which, Like A Silver Clasp, Unites Today With Yesterday!

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.

No Literature Is Complete Until The Language It Was Written In Is Dead.

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

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

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

Music Is The Universal Language Of Mankind.

Thou Shalt Learn The Wisdom Early To Discern True Beauty In Utility.

All Things Come Round To Him Who Will But Wait.

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.

It Is Autumn; Not Without But Within Me Is The Cold. Youth And Spring Are All About; It Is I That Have Grown Old.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Dust Thou Art To Dust Returneth, Was Not Spoken Of The Soul.

And All The Air Is Filled With Pleasant Noise Of Waters

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

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

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.

There Is Nothing Holier In This Life Of Ours Than The First Consciousness Of Love, The First Fluttering Of Its Silken Wings.

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

The Counterfeit And Counterpart Of Nature Is Reproduced In Art.

Counterfeit Money

Ah, How Skillful Grows The Hand That Obeyeth Love's Command! It Is The Heart, And Not The Brain, That To The Highest Doth Attain, And He Who Followeth Love's Behest Far Excelleth All The Rest!

There Is Nothing Perfectly Secure But Poverty.

The Leaves Of Memory Seemed To Make A Mournful Rustling In The Dark

The Air Of Summer Was Sweeter Than Wine.

Love Gives Itself; It Is Not Bought.

The Hooded Clouds, Like Friars, Tell Their Beads In Drops Of Rain.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

There Is No Flock, However Watched And Tended, But One Dead Lamb Is There! There Is No Fireside Howsoe'er Defended, But Has One Vacant Chair.

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

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

Talk Not Of Wasted Affection - Affection Never Was Wasted.

Every Man Has His Secret Sorrows.

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

The Trees Are White With Dust, That O'er Their Sleep Wave Their Broad Curtains In The South-wind's Breath, While Underneath Such Leafy Tents They Keep The Long, Mysterious Exodus Of Death.

Gone Are The Birds That Were Our Summer Guests.

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.

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.

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

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

More Hearts Are Breaking In This World Of Ours Than One Would Say. In Distant Villages And Solitudes Remote, Where Winds Have Wafted The Barbed Seeds Of Love, Or Birds Of Passage Scattered Them In Their Flight, Do They Take Root, And Grow In Silence, And In Silence Perish.

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.

The Day Is Cold, And Dark, And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind In 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.

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.

Beautiful In Form And Feature, Lovely As The Day, Can There Be So Fair A Creature Formed Of Common Clay?

Today Is The Blocks With Which We Build.

Live In The Moment

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

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.

Be Noble In Every Thought And In Every Deed!

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

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.

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

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.

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