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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.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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There Are Two Angels

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

The Rapture Of Pursuing Is The Prize The Vanquished Gain.

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

The Foods That Prolong Life And Increase Purity, Vigour, Health, Cheerfulness, And Happiness Are Those That Are Delicious, Soothing, Substantial And Agreeable... Foods That Are Bitter, Sour, Salt, Over-hot, Pungent, Dry And Burning Produce Unhappiness, Repentance And Disease.

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

The Picture That Approaches Sculpture Nearest Is The Best Picture.

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.

Even The Blackest Of Them All, The Crow, Renders Good Service As Your Man-at-arms, Crushing The Beetle In His Coat Of Mail. And Crying Havoc On The Slug And Snail.

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

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.

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

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

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

Nothing That Is Can Pause Or Stay.

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall.

The Soul...is Audible, Not Visible.

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!

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

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

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

Magnificent Autumn! He Comes Not Like A Pilgrim, Clad In Russet Weeds; Not Like A Hermit, Clad In Gray; But Like A Warrior With The Stain Of Blood In His Brazen Mail.

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.

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

The Hearts Of Some Women Tremble Like Leaves At Every Breath Of Love Which Reaches Them, And They Are Still Again. Others, Like The Ocean, Are Moved Only By The Breath Of A Storm, And Not So Easily Lulled To Rest.

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

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

To Charm, To Strengthen, And To Teach: These Are The Three Great Chords Of Might.

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.

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.

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

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?

Gone Are The Birds That Were Our Summer Guests.

I Know Not How It Is, But During A Voyage I Collect Books As A Ship Does Barnacles.

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

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.

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

The Human Voice Is The Organ Of The Soul.

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

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

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.

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!

I Feel A Kind Of Reverence For The First Books Of Young Authors. There Is So Much Aspiration In Them, So Much Audacious Hope And Trembling Fear, So Much Of The Heart's History, That All Errors And Shortcomings Are For A While Lost Sight Of In The Amiable Self Assertion Of Youth.

Today Is The Blocks With Which We Build.

Live In The Moment

The Devil Hinders Me. You Know I Say Just What I Think, And Nothing More Nor Less, And, When I Pray, My Heart Is In My Prayer. I Cannot Say One Thing And Mean Another. If I Can't Pray, I Will Not Make Believe!

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.

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

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.

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.

Fortune Comes Well To All That Comes Not Late.

I Will Be A Man Among Men; And No Longer A Dreamer Among Shadows. Henceforth Be Mine A Life Of Action And Reality! I Will Work In My Own Sphere, Nor Wish It Other Than It Is. This Alone Is Health And Happiness.

Midnight! The Outpost Of Advancing Day! The Frontier Town And Citadel Of Night!

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

Resolve And Thou Art Free.

The Bravest Are The Tenderest.

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

Inspirational Love

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.

How Beautiful The Silent Hour, When Morning And Evening Thus Sit Together, Hand In Hand, Beneath The Starless Sky Of Midnight!

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

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?

Under A 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.

Softly The Evening Came /with The Sunset/.

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.

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.

Never Idle A Moment, But Thrifty And Thoughtful Of Others.

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!

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

Wisely Improve The Present. It Is Thine.

Fear Of The Future

Future And Present

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.

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!

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.

Rule By Patience, Laughing Water!

Life Is The Gift Of God, And Is Divine.

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

The Soul Never Grows Old.

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

Procrastination

You Would Attain To The Divine Perfection.

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

I Am Never Indifferent, And Never Pretend To Be, To What People Say Or Think Of My Books. They Are My Children, And I Like To Have Them Liked.

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.

None But Yourself Who Are Your Greatest Foe.

Even Cities Have Their Graves!

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.

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

Let Us Then, Be Up And Doing.

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

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.

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.

A Lady With A Lamp Shall Stand In The Great History Of The Land, A Noble Type Of Good, Heroic Womanhood.

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.

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.

No Tears Dim The Sweet Look That Nature Wears.

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

Taste The Joy That Springs From Labor.

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

We See But Dimly Through The Mists And Vapors; Amid These Earthly Damps What Seem To Us But Sad, Funereal Tapers May Be Heaven's Distant Lamps.

But Oftentimes Celestial Benedictions Assume This Dark Disguise.

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.

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.

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

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls, The Burial-ground God's-acre.

Our Hearts Are Lamps For Ever Burning.

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?

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

History Casts Its Shadow Far Into The Land Of Song.

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.

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.

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

Nothing Is Or Can Be Accidental With God.

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

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

Many A Poem Is Marred By A Superfluous Verse.

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.

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!

The Air Is Full Of Farewells To The Dying. And Mournings For The Dead.

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

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?

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

Time, Like A Preacher In The Days Of The Puritans, Turned The Hour-glass On His High Pulpit, The Church Belfry.

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.

The Talent Of Success Is Nothing More Than Doing What You Can Do, Well.

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

My Designs And Labors And Aspirations Are My Only Friends.

Think Not Because No Man Sees, Such Things Will Remain Unseen.

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

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

Wondrous Strong Are The Spells Of Fiction.

Look Upon The Errors Of Others In Sorrow, Not In Anger.

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

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

Would You Learn The Secret Of The Sea? Only Those Who Brave Its Dangers, Comprehend Its Mystery!

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.

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting.

The Nimble Lie Is Like The Second-hand Upon A Clock; We See It Fly; While The Hour-hand Of Truth Seems To Stand Still, And Yet It Moves Unseen, And Wins, At Last, For The Clock Will Not Strike Till It Has Reached The Goal.

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.

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.

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.

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

There's Nothing In This World So Sweet As Love. And Next To Love The Sweetest Thing Is Hate.

The Country Is Not Priest-ridded, But Press-ridden.

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!

The Sun Is Set; And In His Latest Beams Yon Little Cloud Of Ashen Gray And Gold, Slowly Upon The Amber Air Unrolled, The Falling Mantle Of The Prophet Seems.

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

Love Keeps The Cold Out Better Than A Cloak.

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.

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

Big Words Do Not Smite Like War-clubs, Boastful Breath Is Not A Bow-string, Taunts Are Not So Sharp As Arrows, Deeds Are Better Things Than Words Are, Actions Mightier Than Boastings.

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

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.

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

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

All Your Strength In Is Your Union. All Your Danger Is In Discord. Therefore Be At Peace Henceforward, And As Brothers Live Together.

The Prayer Of Ajax Was For Light.

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

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

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

Balder The Beautiful Is Dead, Is Dead!

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.

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

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

Age Is Opportunity No Less Than Youth Itself.

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.

Man Is Always More Than He Can Know Of Himself; Consequently, His Accomplishments, Time And Again, Will Come As A Surprise To Him.

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

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!

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

Death Is Better Than Disease.

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.

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.

However Things May Seem, No Evil Thing Is Success And No Good Thing Is Failure.

Congratulations

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.

Very Hot And Still The Air Was, Very Smooth The Gliding River, Motionless The Sleeping Shadows.

Life Hath Quicksands, Life Hath Snares!

Tis Always Morning Somewhere.

Think Of Your Woods And Orchards Without Birds! Of Empty Nests That Cling To Boughs And Beams As In An Idiot's Brain Remembered Words Hang Empty 'mid The Cobwebs Of His Dreams!

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.

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.

The Sunshine Fails, The Shadows Grow More Dreary, And I Am Near To Fall, Infirm And Weary.

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.

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.

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!

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

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

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

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")

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