Background Image

...

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.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

...

Please Wait....
Translating....

Were Half The Power

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

...

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.

Views: 14

Topic

More From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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.

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.

Wondrous Strong Are The Spells Of Fiction.

Let Us Be Merciful As Well As Just.

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

Wisely Improve The Present. It Is Thine.

Fear Of The Future

Future And Present

When We Walk Towards The Sun Of Truth, All Shadows Are Cast Behind Us.

We Waste Our Best Years In Distilling The Sweetest Flowers Of Life Into Potions Which, After All, Do Not Immortalize, But Only Intoxicate.

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

Resolve And Thou Art Free.

The Laws Of Nature Are Just, But Terrible. There Is No Weak Mercy In Them. Cause And Consequence Are Inseparable And Inevitable.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

The Wreck Of The Hesperus But The Father Answered Never A Word, A Frozen Corpse Was He.

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

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

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?

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.

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

Many Readers Judge Of The Power Of A Book By The Shock It Gives Their Feelings - As Some Savage Tribes Determine The Power Of Muskets By Their Recoil; That Being Considered Best Which Fairly Prostrates The Purchaser.

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 Greatest Grace Of A Gift, Perhaps, Is That It Anticipates And Admits Of No Return.

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

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

Therefore Trust To Thy Heart, And To What The World Calls Illusions.

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

The Day Is Cold, And Dark, And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind In Never Weary; The Vine Still Clings To The Mouldering Wall, But At Every Gust The Dead Leaves Fall, And The Day Is Dark And Dreary.

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

A Feeling Of Sadness And Longing, That Is Not Akin To Pain, And Resembles Sorrow Only As The Mist Resembles The Rain.

Age Is Opportunity No Less Than Youth Itself.

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

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.

Music Is The Language Spoken By Angels.

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

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.

Taste The Joy That Springs From Labor.

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!

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

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.

Life Like An Empty Dream Flits By.

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

The Sky Is Filled With Stars, Invisible By Day.

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!

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.

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!

Many People Do Not Allow Their Principles To Take Root, But Pull Them Up Every Now And Then, As Children Do The Flowers They Have Planted, To See If They Are Growing.

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

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

In This World A Man Must Either Be Anvil Or Hammer.

Tis Always Morning Somewhere.

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.

After A Day Of Cloud And Wind And Rain Sometimes The Setting Sun Breaks Out Again, And Touching All The Darksome Woods With Light, Smiles On The Fields Until They Laugh And Sing, Then Like A Ruby From The Horizon's Ring, Drops Down Into The Night.

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

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

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.

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

Congratulations

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.

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

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.

Among The Noblest In The Land - Though Man May Count Himself The Least - That Man I Honor And Revere, Who Without Favor, Without Fear, In The Great City Dares To Stand, The Friend Of Every Friendless Beast.

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

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

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

The Rapture Of Pursuing Is The Prize The Vanquished Gain.

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.

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.

Will Without Power Is Like Children Playing At Soldiers.

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.

For Next To Being A Great Poet Is The Power Of Understanding One.

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.

Today Is The Blocks With Which We Build.

Live In The Moment

As To The Pure Mind All Things Are Pure, So To The Poetic Mind All Things Are Poetical.

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

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.

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.

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

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!

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

Fortune Comes Well To All That Comes Not Late.

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

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.

In Ourselves Are Triumph And Defeat.

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.

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!

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

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

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!

A Life That Is Worth Writing At All Is Worth Writing Minutely.

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

Ah, How Wonderful Is The Advent Of The Spring!—the Great Annual Miracle.... Which No Force Can Stay, No Violence Restrain, Like Love, That Wins Its Way And Cannot Be Withstood By Any Human Power, Because Itself Is Divine Power. If Spring Came But Once In A Century, Instead Of Once A Year, Or Burst Forth With The Sound Of An Earthquake, And Not In Silence, What Wonder And Expectation Would There Be In All Hearts To Behold The Miraculous Change!... We Are Like Children Who Are Astonished And Delighted Only By The Second-hand Of The Clock, Not By The Hour-hand.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

Love One Another

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

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.

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

I Love Thee, As The Good Love Heaven.

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

Intelligence And Courtesy Not Always Are Combined; Often In A Wooden House A Golden Room We Find.

And All The Air Is Filled With Pleasant Noise Of Waters

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.

Fair Words Gladden So Many A Heart.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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!

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

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.

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

The Laws Of Nature Are Just, But Terrible. There Is No Weak Mercy In Them. Cause And Consequence Are Inseparable And Inevitable. The Elements Have No Forbearance. The Fire Burns, The Water Drowns, The Air Consumes, The Earth Buries. And Perhaps It Would Be Well For Our Race If The Punishment Of Crimes Against The Laws Of Man Were As Inevitable As The Punishment Of Crimes Against The Laws Of Nature -were Man As Unerring In His Judgments As Nature.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

Ambition's Cradle Oftenest Is Its Grave

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.

All Was Silent As Before - All Silent Save The Dripping Rain.

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.

From Labor There Shall Come Forth Rest.

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

The World Loves A Spice Of Wickedness.

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting, And Our Hearts, Though Stout And Brave, Still, Like Muffled Drums, Are Beating Funeral Marches To The Grave.

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!

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.

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

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

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?

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

Procrastination

Peace! And No Longer From Its Brazen Portals The Blast Of War's Great Organ Shakes The Skies! But Beautiful As Songs Of The Immortals, The Holy Melodies Of Love Arise.

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

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.

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting.

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

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.

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

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")

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

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

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.

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

Masculine And Feminine

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.

It Is Curious To Note The Old Sea-margins Of Human Thought! Each Subsiding Century Reveals Some New Mystery; We Build Where Monsters Used To Hide Themselves.

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

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

There Is Nothing Perfectly Secure But Poverty.

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

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 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!

How Far The Gulf-stream Of Our Youth May Flow Into The Arctic Regions Of Our Lives, Where Little Else Than Life Itself Survives.

Ah, Nothing Is Too Late, Till The Tired Heart Shall Cease To Palpitate.

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

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.

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

The Greatest Firmness Is The Greatest Mercy.

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.

But Oftentimes Celestial Benedictions Assume This Dark Disguise.

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.

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.

Life Is The Gift Of God, And Is Divine.

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?

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

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.

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.

The Morrow Was A Bright September Morn; The Earth Was Beautiful As If Newborn; There Was Nameless Splendor Everywhere, That Wild Exhilaration In The Air, Which Makes The Passers In The City Street Congratulate Each Other As They Meet.

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.

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

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.

How Absolute And Omnipotent Is The Silence Of Night! And Yet The Stillness Seems Almost Audible! From All The Measureless Depths Of Air Around Us Comes A Half-sound, A Half-whisper, As If We Could Hear The Crumbling And Falling Away Of Earth And All Created Things, In The Great Miracle Of Nature, Decay And Reproduction, Ever Beginning, Never Ending,--the Gradual Lapse And Running Of The Sand In The Great Hour-glass Of Time.

I Will Be A Man Among Men; And No Longer A Dreamer Among Shadows.

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

Autumn Arrives Like A Warrior With The Stain Of Blood Upon His Brazen Mail. His Crimson Scarf Is Rent. His Scarlet Banner Drips With Gore. His Step Is Like A Flail Upon The Threshing Floor.

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

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

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

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.

There Is No Grief Like The Grief That Does Not Speak.

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

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

Sang In Tones Of Deep Emotion Songs Of Love And Songs Of Longing.

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

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.

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!

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

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

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

See Yonder Fire! It Is The Moon Slow Rising O'er The Eastern Hill. It Glimmers On The Forest Tips, And Through The Dewy Foliage Drips In Little Rivulets Of Light, And Makes The Heart In Love With Night.

Trending Author

Oscar Pistorius

Category