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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.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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The Day Is Cold,

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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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.

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Write On Your Doors The Saying Wise And Old, "be Bold! Be Bold!" And Everywhere - "be Bold; Be Not Too Bold!" Yet Better The Excess Than The Defect; Better The More Than Less; Better Like Hector In The Field To Die, Than Like A Perfumed Paris Turn And Fly.

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

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

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

A Single Conversation Across The Table With A Wise Man Is Better Than Ten Years Mere Study Of Books.

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

These Stars Of Earth, These Golden Flowers.

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

Life Like An Empty Dream Flits By.

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.

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.

Balder The Beautiful Is Dead, Is Dead!

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.

I Love The Season Well When Forest Glades Are Teeming With Bright Forms, Nor Dark And Many-folded Clouds Foretell The Coming Of Storms.

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

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.

Resolve And Thou Art Free.

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

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

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!

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.

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

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

Every Human Heart Is Human.

Man Is Unjust, But God Is Just; And Finally Justice Triumphs.

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?

'twas Easter-sunday. The Full-blossomed Trees Filled All The Air With Fragrance And With Joy.

.... 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.

Life Hath Quicksands, Life Hath Snares!

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")

The Day Is Cold, And Dark, And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary; The Vine Still Clings To The Mouldering Wall, But At Every Gust The Dead Leaves Fall, And The Day Is Dark And Dreary. My Life Is Cold, And Dark, And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary; My Thoughts Still Cling To The Mouldering Past, But The Hopes Of Youth Fall Thick In The Blast, And The Days Are Dark And Dreary. Be Still, Sad Heart! And Cease Repining; Behind The Clouds Is The Sun Still Shining; Thy Fate Is The Common Fate Of All, Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall, Some Days Must Be Dark And Dreary.

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

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

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

Stars Of Earth, These Golden Flowers; Emblems Of Our Own Great Resurrection; Emblems Of The Bright And Better Land.

If The Mind, That Rules The Body, Ever So Far Forgets Itself As To Trample On Its Slave, The Slave Is Never Generous Enough To Forgive The Injury, But Will Rise And Smite The Oppressor.

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

Music Is The Universal Language Of Mankind.

O Thou Sculptor, Painter, Poet! Take This Lesson To Thy Heart: That Is Best Which Lieth Nearest; Shape From That Thy Work Of Art.

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.

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.

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

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.

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?

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

Much Must He Toil Who Serves The Immortal Gods.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Let Us Then, Be Up And Doing.

Were Half The Power That Fills The World With Terror, Were Half The Wealth Bestowed On Camps And Courts, Given To Redeem The Human Mind From Error, There Were No Need Of Arsenals Or Forts.

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

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

He Spoke Well Who Said That Graves Are The Footprints Of Angels.

Losing A Loved One

Be Noble In Every Thought And In Every Deed!

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!

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

The Human Voice Is The Organ Of The Soul.

Will Without Power Is Like Children Playing At Soldiers.

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.

A Young Critic Is Like A Boy With A Gun; He Fires At Every Living Thing He Sees. He Thinks Only Of His Own Skill, Not Of The Pain He Is Giving.

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.

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.

The Story, From Beginning To End, I Found Again In A Heart Of A Friend.

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

Nothing Useless Is, Or Low; Each Thing In Its Place Is Best; And What Seems But Idle Show Strengthens And Supports The Rest.

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

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

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

Fair Words Gladden So Many A Heart.

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.

There's Not A Ship That Sails The Ocean, But Every Climate, Every Soil, Must Bring Its Tribute, Great Or Small, And Help To Build The Wooden Wall!

But The Nearer The Dawn The Darker The Night, And By Going Wrong All Things Come Right. Things Have Been Mended That Were Worse, And The The Worse, The Nearer They Are To Mend.

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!

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.

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

Tomorrow Is The Mysterious, Unknown Guest.

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

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

Time Is The Life Of The Soul.

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

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.

Work Is My Recreation, The Play Of Faculty; A Delight Like That Which A Bird Feels In Flying, Or A Fish In Darting Through The Water,--nothing More.

Love Gives Itself; It Is Not Bought.

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

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.

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

Ah Me! What Wonder-working, Occult Science Can From The Ashes In Our Hearts Once More The Rose Of Youth Restore? What Craft Of Alchemy Can Bid Defiance To Time And Change, And For A Single Hour Renew This Phantom-flower?

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.

Give What You Have. To Some One, It May Be Better Than You Dare To Think.

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

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.

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!

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

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.

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!

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

Like A French Poem Is Life; Being Only Perfect In Structure When With The Masculine Rhymes Mingled The Feminine Are.

Masculine And Feminine

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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!

Music Is The Language Spoken By Angels.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

Fortune Comes Well To All That Comes Not Late.

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

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.

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

Defeat May Be Victory In Disguise.

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

Saint Augustine! Well Hast Thou Said, That Of Our Vices We Can Frame A Ladder, If We Will But Tread Beneath Our Feet Each Deed Of Shame.

Enthusiasm Begets Enthusiasm.

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

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 Shadows Of The Mind Are Like Those Of The Body. In The Morning Of Life They All Lie Behind Us; At Noon We Trample Them Under Foot; And In The Evening They Stretch Long, Broad, And Deepening Before Us.

Art Is The Child Of Nature.

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

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!

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.

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.

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

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

Thus Thought I, As By Night I Read Of The Great Army Of The Dead, The Trenches Cold And Damp, The Starved And Frozen Camp,-- The Wounded From The Battle-plain, In Dreary Hospitals Of Pain, The Cheerless Corridors, The Cold And Stony Floors. Lo! In That House Of Misery A Lady With A Lamp I See Pass Through The Glimmering Gloom And Flit From Room To Room. And Slow, As In A Dream Of Bliss, The Speechless Sufferer Turns To Kiss Her Shadow, As It Falls Upon The Darkening Walls.

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

Whatever Poet, Orator, Or Sage May Say Of It, Old Age Is Still Old Age.

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

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

Love One Another

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

God Is Not Dead; Nor Doth He Sleep; ... The Wrong Shall Fail, The Right Prevail, With Peace On Earth, Good Will To Men.

Death Is Better Than Disease.

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 Lowest Ebb Is The Turn Of The Tide.

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

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

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.

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

The Surest Pledge Of A Deathless Name Is The Silent Homage Of Thoughts Unspoken.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

Silence Is A Great Peacemaker.

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.

Evil Is Only Good Perverted.

In The Long Run Men Hit Only What They Aim At.

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.

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

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?

A Noble Type Of Good. Heroic Womanhood.

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

Life Is The Gift Of God, And Is Divine.

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

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

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.

Who Ne'er His Bread In Sorrow Ate, Who Ne'er The Mournful Midnight Hours Weeping Upon His Bed Has Sate, He Knows You Not, Ye Heavenly Powers.

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

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

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

I Heard The Trailing Garments Of The Night Sweep Through Her Marble Halls! I Saw Her Sable Skirts All Fringed With Light From The Celestial Walls! I Felt Her Presence, By Its Spell Of Might, Stoop O'er Me From Above; The Calm, Majestic Presence Of The Night, As Of The One I Love.

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

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

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

O Thou Child Of Many Prayers! Life Hath Quicksands, Life Hath Snares! Care And Age Come Unawares!

So Disasters Come Not Singly; But As If They Watched And Waited, Scanning One Another's Motions, When The First Descends, The Others Follow, Follow, Gathering Flock-wiseround Their Victim, Sick And Wounded, First A Shadow, Then A Sorrow, Till The Air Is Dark With Anguish.

'tis Always Morning Somewhere, And Abovethe Awakening Continents, From Shore To Shore,somewhere The Birds Are Singing Evermore.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

There Are Moments In Life, When The Heart Is So Full Of Emotion That If By Chance It Be Shaken, Or Into Its Depths Like A Pebble Drops Some Careless Word, It Overflows, And Its Secret, Spilt On The Ground Like Water, Can Never Be Gathered Together.

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!

Welcome, Disappointment! Thy Hand Is Cold And Hard, But It Is The Hand Of A Friend. Thy Voice Is Stern And Harsh, But It Is The Voice Of A Friend. Oh, There Is Something Sublime In Calm Endurance, Something Sublime In The Resolute, Fixed Purpose Of Suffering Without Complaining, Which Makes Disappointment Oftentimes Better Than Success!

Make Not Thyself The Judge Of Any Man.

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Rebecca Ferguson

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