THE MOST EXTENSIVE
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Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to win victories by turning somersets in the air.
Ballads are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows, in leafy lanes and by-paths of literature, in the genial summer-time.
Be thy sleep
Silent as night is, and as deep.
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.
Behold of what delusive worth
The bubbles we pursue on earth,
The shapes we chase.
Beholding the moon rise
Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows:
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossom'd the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
Believe me, every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and oftentimes we call a man cold when he is only sad.
Beloved country! banish'd from thy shore,
A stranger in this prison-house of clay,
The exil'd spirit weeps and sighs for thee!
Heavenward the bright perfections I adore direct.
By too much sitting still, the body becomes unhealthy; and soon the mind.
Death brings us again to our friends. They are waiting for us, and we shall not be long. They have gone before us, and are like the angels in heaven. They stand upon the borders of the grave to welcome us with the countenance of affection which they wore on earth,--yet more lovely, more radiant, more spiritual.
Defeat may be victory in disguise.
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.
Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work rather than its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as the bad heart of Procrustes turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture.
Emblems of our own great resurrection, emblems of the bright and better land.
Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm.
Even He who died for us upon the cross, in the last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was mindful of His mother, as if to each us that this holy love should be our last worldly thought--the last point of earth from which the soul should take its flight for heaven.
The setting sun stretched his celestial rods of light
Across the level landscape, and, like the Hebrews
In Egypt, smote the rivers, brooks, and ponds,
And they became as blood.
Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite.
Every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.
Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.
Fair words gladden so many a heart.
Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing.
Footprints on the sands of time.
For after all the best thing one can do when it is raining, is to let it rain.
God's illumined promise.
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