Do noble things, not dream them all day long: And so make Life, Death, and the vast Forever one grand, sweet song.
Love is sentimental measles.
For men must work and women must weep, And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep.
Beauty is God’s handwriting. Welcome it in every fair face, every fair day, every fair flower.
Nature’s deepest laws, her own true laws, are her invisible ones.
The loveliest fairy in the world; and her name is Mrs Do as you would bed one by.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever.
There is a great deal of human nature in man.
We have used the Bible as if it were a mere special constable’s handbook, an opium dose for keeping beasts of burden patient while they are overloaded.
Except a living man there is nothing more wonderful than a book! A message from the dead – from human souls we never saw, who lived, perhaps, thousands of miles away. And yet these, in those little sheets of paper, speak to us, arouse us, terrify us, comfort us, open their hearts to us as brothers.
You are not very good if you are not better than your best friends imagine you to be.
Therefore, let us be patient, patient; and let God our Father teach His own lesson, His own way. Let us try to learn it well and quickly; but do not let us fancy that He will ring the school-bell, and send us to play before our lesson is learnt.
See the land, her Easter keeping, Rises as her Maker rose. Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping, Burst at last from winter snows. Earth with heaven above rejoices...
A garden, sir, wherein all rainbows and flowers were heaped together.
He was one of those men who possess almost every gift, except the gift of the power to use them.
The Water Babies “Young and Old” When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away: Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day.
We shall be made truly wise if we be made content; content, too, not only with what we can understand, but content with what we do not understand-the habit of mind which theologians call, and rightly, faith in God.
It’s all in the day’s work, as the huntsman said when the lion ate him.
Music has been called the speech of the angels; I will go farther and call it the speech of God Himself.
He was not only, I soon discovered, a water drinker, but a strict vegetarian, to which, perhaps, he owed a great deal of the almost preternatural clearness, volubility, and sensitiveness of mind.