Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.
Whenever nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.
Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.
Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.
Stars of earth, these golden flowers; emblems of our own great resurrection; emblems of the bright and better land.
Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.
In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.
Live up to the best that is in you: Live noble lives, as you all may, in whatever condition you may find yourselves.
Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.
Whoever benefits his enemy with straightforward intention that man's enemies will soon fold their hands in devotion.
Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath.
A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.
In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.
Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice, and lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of thy voice.
Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun.
Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait.
Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service.
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!
God is not dead; nor doth He sleep; ... The wrong shall fail, The right prevail, With peace on earth, good will to men.
Build today, then strong and sure, With a firm and ample base; And ascending and secure. Shall tomorrow find its place.
The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed.
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.
O Music! language of the soul, Of love, of God to man; Bright beam from heaven thrilling, That lightens sorrow's weight.
Where'er a noble deed is wrought, Where'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To higher levels rise.
Prayer is innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant 'twist the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.
My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o’er our fears, are all with thee – are all with thee!
A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round, If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.
O, though oft oppressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died!
I have an affection for a great city. I feel safe in the neighborhood of man, and enjoy the sweet security of the streets.
Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life.
O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be!
Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Love is a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than animate faith and love, as flowers are the animate springtide.
All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.
There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.
Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.
But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust.
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.
Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes! O drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again.
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.
For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.
How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!
'Tis always morning somewhere, and aboveThe awakening continents, from shore to shore,Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.
Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.