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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.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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The Secret Studies Of

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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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.

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More From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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

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

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

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.

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.

Talk Not Of Wasted Affection - Affection Never Was Wasted.

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.

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.

What Is Time? The Shadow On The Dial, The Striking Of The Clock, The Running Of The Sand, Day And Night, Summer And Winter, Months, Years, Centuries-these Are But Arbitrary And Outward Signs, The Measure Of Time, Not Time Itself. Time Is The Life Of The Soul.

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

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

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

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

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.

The Dawn Is Not Distant, Nor Is The Night Starless; Love Is Eternal.

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

Many Have Genius, But, Wanting Art, Are Forever Dumb. The Two Must Go Together To Form The Great Poet, Painter, Or Sculptor.

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

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

Feeling Is Deep And Still; And The Word That Floats On The Surface Is As The Tossing Buoy, That Betrays Where The Anchor Is Hidden.

The 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.

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

All Nature ... Is A Respiration Of The Spirit Of God, Who, In Breathing Hereafter Will Inhale It Into His Bosom Again, So That Nothing But God Alone Will Remain.

Wisely Improve The Present. It Is Thine.

Fear Of The Future

Future And Present

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.

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

The Greatest Firmness Is The Greatest Mercy.

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

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

The Nearer The Dawn The Darker The Night.

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

Not In The Clamor Of The Crowded Street, Not In The Shouts And Plaudits Of The Throng, But In Ourselves, Are Triumph And Defeat.

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

Defeat May Be Victory In Disguise.

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!

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.

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.

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

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

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

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!

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

I Love An Author The More For Having Been Himself A Lover Of Books.

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

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

One, If By Land, And Two, If By Sea; And I On The Opposite Shore Will Be, Ready To Ride And Spread The Alarm Through Every Middlesex Village And Farm For The Country Folk To Be Up And To Arm.

If We Could Read The Secret History Of Our Enemies.

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

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

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.

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.

If I Am Not Worth The Wooing, I Surely Am Not Worth The Winning!

Inspirational Love

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.

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.

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

A Town That Boasts Inhabitants Like Me Can Have No Lack Of Good Society.

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

Tis Always Morning Somewhere.

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

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

Men Should Soon Make Up Their Minds To Be Forgotten, And Look About Them, Or Within Them, For Some Higher Motive In What They Do Than The Approbation Of Men, Which Is Fame, Namely, Their Duty; That They Should Be Constantly And Quietly At Work, Each In His Sphere, Regardless Of Effects, And Leaving Their Fame To Take Care Of Itself.

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

Learn To Labour And To Wait.

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.

Joy, Temperance, And Repose, Slam The Door On The Doctor's Nose.

To-morrow! The Mysterious, Unknown Guest, Who Cries To Me: "remember Barmecide, And Tremble To Be Happy With The Rest." And I Make Answer: "i Am Satisfied; I Dare Not Ask; I Know Not What Is Best; God Hath Already Said What Shall Betide.

Ambition's Cradle Oftenest Is Its Grave

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.

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.

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.

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.

Enthusiasm Begets Enthusiasm.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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

Life Like An Empty Dream Flits By.

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.

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

For Age Is Opportunity No Less Than Youth Itself, Though In Another Dress, And As The Evening Twilight Fades Away The Sky Is Filled With Stars, Invisible By Day.

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.

The Lowest Ebb Is The Turn Of The Tide.

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?

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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!

With Many Readers, Brilliancy Of Style Passes For Affluence Of Thought; They Mistake Buttercups In The Grass For Immeasurable Gold Mines Under Ground.

These Stars Of Earth, These Golden Flowers.

And The Wind Plays On Those Great Sonorous Harps, The Shrouds And Masts Of Ships.

None But Yourself Who Are Your Greatest Foe.

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.

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

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

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

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 Twilight That Surrounds The Border-land Of Old Romance.

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

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.

Love Makes Its Record In Deeper Colors As We Grow Out Of Childhood Into Manhood.

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

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

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

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

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

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?

How Can I Tell The Signals And The Signs By Which One Heart Another Heart Divines? How Can I Tell The Many Thousand Ways By Which It Keeps The Secret It Betrays?

Ah, Yes, The Sea Is Still And Deep, All Things Within Its Bosom Sleep! A Single Step, And All Is O'er, A Plunge, A Bubble, And No More.

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!

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.

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

Silence Is A Great Peacemaker.

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.

Even Cities Have Their Graves!

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

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

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.

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

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!

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 Sea Hath Its Pearls The Heaven Hath Its Stars But My Heart, My Heart Has Its Love.

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

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

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 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.

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

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.

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

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.

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 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.

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.

The Air Of Summer Was Sweeter Than Wine.

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

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

Losing A Loved One

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.

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.

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.

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Love Keeps The Cold Out Better Than A Cloak.

Many A Poem Is Marred By A Superfluous Verse.

The Day Is Done, And The Darkness Falls From The Wings Of Night, As A Feather Is Wafted Downward From An Eagle In His Flight.

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall.

Every Human Heart Is Human.

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

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

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

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

There Are Things Of Which I May Not Speak; There Are Dreams That Cannot Die; There Are Thoughts That Make The Strong Heart Weak, And Bring A Pallor Into The Cheek, And A Mist Before The Eye.

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

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 Spring Came Suddenly, Bursting Upon The World As A Child Bursts Into A Room, With A Laugh And A Shout And Hands Full Of Flowers.

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.

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

And All The Air Is Filled With Pleasant Noise Of Waters

Some Poems Are Like The Centaurs--a Mingling Of Man And Beast, And Begotten Of Ixion On A Cloud.

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.

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!

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.

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

It Has Done Me Good To Be Somewhat Parched By The Heat And Drenched By The Rain Of Life.

.... 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.

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.

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

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

That Was The First Sound In The Song Of Love! Scarce More Than Silence Is, And Yet A Sound. Hands Of Invisible Spirits Touch The Strings Of That Mysterious Instrument, The Soul, And Play The Prelude Of Our Fate. We Hear The Voice Prophetic, And Are Not Alone.

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

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.

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

I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day Their Old, Familiar Carols Play, And Wild And Sweet The Words Repeat Of Peace On Earth, Good-will To Men!

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

From Labor There Shall Come Forth Rest.

Our Faith Triumphant O'er Our Fears.

Not Enjoyment, And Not Sorrow, Is Our Destined End Or Way; But To Act, That Each Tomorrow Find Us Farther Than Today.

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

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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