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The Little I Have Seen Of The World Teaches Me To Look Upon The Errors Of Others In Sorrow, Not In Anger. When I Take The History Of One Poor Heart That Has Sinned And Suffered, And Represent To Myself The Struggles And Temptations It Has Passed Through, The Brief Pulsations Of Joy, The Feverish Inquietude Of Hope And Fear, The Pressure Of Want, The Desertion Of Friends, I Would Fain Leave The Erring Soul Of My Fellow-man With Him From Whose Hand It Came.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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The Little I Have

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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The Little I Have Seen Of The World Teaches Me To Look Upon The Errors Of Others In Sorrow, Not In Anger. When I Take The History Of One Poor Heart That Has Sinned And Suffered, And Represent To Myself The Struggles And Temptations It Has Passed Through, The Brief Pulsations Of Joy, The Feverish Inquietude Of Hope And Fear, The Pressure Of Want, The Desertion Of Friends, I Would Fain Leave The Erring Soul Of My Fellow-man With Him From Whose Hand It Came.

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The Moon Is Hidden Behind A Cloud... On The Leaves Is A Sound Of Falling Rain... No Other Sounds Than These I Hear; The Hour Of Midnight Must Be Near... So Many Ghosts, And Forms Of Fright, Have Started From Their Graves To-night, They Have Driven Sleep From Mine Eyes Away: I Will Go Down To The Chapel And Pray.

All Things Must Change To Something New, To Something Strange.

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

Sweet Is The Air With The Budding Haws, And The Valley Stretching For Miles Below Is White With Blossoming Cherry-trees, As If Just Covered With Lighted Snow.

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

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

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

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

Look Not Mournfully Into The Past. It Comes Not Back Again.

One Tree Hill Love

Life Hath Quicksands, Life Hath Snares!

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

Every Man Has A Paradise Around Him Till He Sins, And The Angel Of An Accusing Conscience Drives Him From His Eden.

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

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

And The Bright Faces Of My Young Companions Are Wrinkled Like My Own, Or Are No More.

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

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!

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

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?

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.

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.

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

Even Cities Have Their Graves!

Learn To Labour And To Wait.

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

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.

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.

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

The True Poet Is A Friendly Man. He Takes To His Arms Even Cold And Inanimate Things, And Rejoices In His Heart.

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

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.

That Which The Fountain Sends Forth Returns Again To The Fountain.

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.

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

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

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

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!

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.

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

The Natural Alone Is Permanent.

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.

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.

Gone Are The Birds That Were Our Summer Guests.

No Action, Whether Foul Or Fair, Is Ever Done, But It Leaves Somewhere A Record, Written By Fingers Ghostly, As A Blessing Or A Curse, And Mostly In The Greater Weakness Or Greater Strength Of The Acts Which Follow It.

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.

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.

Wondrous Strong Are The Spells Of Fiction.

Many A Poem Is Marred By A Superfluous Verse.

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

Art Is The Gift Of God, And Must Be Used Unto His Glory.

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.

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

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall.

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!

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

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.

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!

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.

Sorrow And Silence Are Strong, And Patient Endurance Is Godlike.

But Ah! What Once Has Been Shall Be No More! The Groaning Earth In Travail And In Pain Brings Forth Its Races, But Does Not Restore, And The Dead Nations Never Rise Again.

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!

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

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

The Prayer Of Ajax Was For Light.

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

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

From Labor There Shall Come Forth Rest.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

The Little I Have Seen Of The World Teaches Me To Look Upon The Errors Of Others In Sorrow, Not In Anger. When I Take The History Of One Poor Heart That Has Sinned And Suffered, And Represent To Myself The Struggles And Temptations It Has Passed Through, The Brief Pulsations Of Joy, The Feverish Inquietude Of Hope And Fear, The Pressure Of Want, The Desertion Of Friends, I Would Fain Leave The Erring Soul Of My Fellow-man With Him From Whose Hand It Came.

Taste The Joy That Springs From Labor.

The Soul...is Audible, Not Visible.

Silence And Solitude, The Soul's Best Friends.

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

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

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

The Thoughts Of Youth Are Long, Long Thoughts

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.

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.

I Have A Passion For Ballad. . . . They Are The Gypsy Children Of Song, Born Under Green Hedgerows In The Leafy Lanes And Bypaths Of Literature,--in The Genial Summertime.

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

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

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

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

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

How Like They Are To Human Things!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

By The Shore Of Gitche Gumee, By The Shining Big-sea-water, At The Doorway Of His Wigwam, In The Pleasant Summer Morning, Hiawatha Stood And Waited.

O Little Feet! That Such Long Years Must Wander On Through Hopes And Fears, Must Ache And Bleed Beneath Your Load; I, Nearer To The Wayside Inn Where Toil Shall Cease And Rest Begin, Am Weary, Thinking Of Your Road!

Thinking Of You

History Casts Its Shadow Far Into The Land Of Song.

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!

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.

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

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

The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls, The Twilight Darkens, The Curlew Calls; The Little Waves, With Their Soft, White Hands, Efface The Footprints In The Sands, And The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls.

As Great Pythagoras Of Yore, Standing Beside The Blacksmith's Door, And Hearing The Hammers, As They Smote The Anvils With A Different Note, Stole From The Varying Tones, That Hung Vibrant On Every Iron Tongue, The Secret Of The Sounding Wire. And Formed The Seven-chorded Lyre.

Silence Is A Great Peacemaker.

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

Patience; Accomplish Thy Labor; Accomplish Thy Work Of Affection! Sorrow And Silence Are Strong, And Patient Endurance Is Godlike. Therefore Accomplish Thy Labor Of Love, Till The Heart Is Made Godlike, Purified, Strengthened, Perfected, And Rendered More Worthy Of Heaven.

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

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.

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.

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

Our Faith Triumphant O'er Our Fears.

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

The Air Of Summer Was Sweeter Than Wine.

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

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

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!

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.

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

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

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

Age Is Opportunity No Less Than Youth Itself.

Today Is The Blocks With Which We Build.

Live In The Moment

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

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.

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

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.

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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.

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.

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

The Course Of My Long Life Hath Reached At Last In Fragile Bark Over A Tempestuous Sea The Common Harbor, Where Must Rendered Be Account For All The Actions Of The Past.

I Have You Fast In My Fortress, And Will Not Let You Depart, But Put You Down Into The Dungeon, In The Round-tower Of My Heart, And There Will I Keep You Forever, Yes, Forever And A Day, Till The Walls Shall Crumble To Ruin, And Moulder In The Dust Away!

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

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

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

A Solid Man Of Boston; A Comfortable Man With Dividends, And The First Salmon And The First Green Peas.

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.

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

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

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!

If The Great Captain Of Plymouth Is So Very Eager To Wed Me, Why Does He Not Come Himself, And Take The Trouble To Woo Me? If I Am Not Worth The Wooing, I Surely Am Not Worth The Winning!

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

Oh, What A Glory Doth This World Put On, For Him Who With A Fervent Heart Goes Forth Under The Bright And Glorious Sky, And Looks On Duties Well Performed, And Days Well Spent.

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

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

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.

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

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!

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

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.

All Your Strength Is In Union, All Your Danger Is In Discord.

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

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

All Things Come Round To Him Who Will But Wait.

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?

Our Blossoms Of Passion, Gay And Luxuriant Flowers, Are Bright And Full Of Fragrance, But They Beguile Us And Lead Us Astray, And Their Odor Is Deadly.

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

A Stiff Letter Galls One Like A Stiff Shirt Collar -- Whilst A Sheet Garnished Here And There With A Careless Blot -- And Here And There A Dash -- But In The Main Full Of Excellent Matter, Is Like A Clever Fellow In A Dirty Shirt Whom We Value For The Good Humour He Brings With Him And Not For The Garb He Wears.

All Was Ended Now, The Hope, And The Fear And The Sorrow, All The Aching Of The Heart, The Restless, Unsatisfied Longing, All The Dull, Deep Pain, And Constant Anguish Of Patience!

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.

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

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

Bell, Thou Soundest Merrily, When The Bridal Party To The Church Doth Hie! Bell, Thou Soundest Solemnly, When, On Sabbath Morning, Fields Deserted Lie!

A Noble Type Of Good. Heroic Womanhood.

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

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

For The Structure That We Raise, Time Is With Materials Filled; Our To-days And Yesterdays Are The Blocks With Which We Build.

Be Noble In Every Thought And In Every Deed!

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

Much Must He Toil Who Serves The Immortal Gods.

Truths That Startled The Generation In Which They Were First Announced Become In The Next Age The Commonplaces Of Conversation; As The Famous Airs Of Operas Which Thrilled The First Audiences Come To Be Played On Hand-organs In The Streets.

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

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.

The Greatest Firmness Is The Greatest Mercy.

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