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Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow,
We will stand by each other; however it blow.
Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.
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.
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, but has one vacant chair!
There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.
There is nothing perfectly secure but poverty.
There was a little girl,
And she had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead;
When she was good she was very, very good,
When she was bad she was horrid.
These grains of gold are not grains of wheat!
These bars of silver thou canst not eat;
These jewels and pearls and precious stones
Cannot cure the aches in thy bones,
Nor keep the feet of death one hour
From climbing the stairways of thy tower.
These stars of earth, these golden flowers.
They who go
Feel not the pain of parting; it is they
Who stay behind that suffer.
This is the place. Stand still, my steed,
Let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy Past
The forms that once have been.
Thou hast betrayed thy secret as a bird betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it.
Thou shalt learn
The wisdom early to discern
True beauty in utility.
Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.
Thousands of toiling hands
Where theirs have ceased from their labours,
Thousands of aching brains
Where theirs are no longer busy.
Thousands of weary feet
Where theirs have completed their Journey,
Thousands of throbbing hearts
Where theirs are at rest for ever.
Thy voice is a celestial melody.
Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.
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.
'Tis sweet to stammer one letter of the Eternal's language; on earth it is called forgiveness.
'Tis the cessation of our breath.
Silent and motionless we lie;
And no one knoweth more than this.
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.
To sleep--there is a drowsy mellifluence in the very word that would almost serve to interpret its meaning--to shut up the senses and hoodwink the soul; to dismiss the world; to escape from one's self; to be in ignorance of our own existence; to stagnate upon the earth; just breathing out the hours, not living them--"doing no mischief, only dreaming of it;" neither merry nor melancholy, something between both, and better than either. Best friend of frail humanity, and, like all other friends, it is best estimated in its loss.
To the poetic mind all things are poetical.
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?
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.
War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous sweet is the smell of powder.
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