THE MOST EXTENSIVE
ON THE INTERNET
Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
Our hearts recall the distant day
With many sighs.
Tales that have the rime of age.
That unfathomed, boundless sea, the silent grave!
The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead.
The air of summer was sweeter than wine.
The babbling day has touched the hem of night's garment, and, weary and still, drops asleep in her bosom.
The belfries of all Christendom now roll along the unbroken song of peace on earth, goodwill to men!
The blossoms of passions, gay luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance; but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.
The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.
The day is dark and cold and dreary; it rains, and the wind is never weary.
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.
- [Evening : Night]
The day is done; and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver!
The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.
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.
The everyday cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time; giving its pendulum a true vibration and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon its wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move, the clock stands still.
- [Drudgery : Duty]
The first pressure of sorrow crushes out from our hearts the best wine; afterwards the constant weight of it brings forth bitterness,--the taste and stain from the lees of the vat.
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf.
The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy.
The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.
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.
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.
The hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain.
The human voice is the organ of the soul.
The intellect of man sits enthroned visibly upon his forehead and in his eye, and the heart of man is written on his countenance; but the soul reveals itself in the voice only.
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