Stay, stay at home, my heart and rest; Home-keeping hearts are the happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care; To stay at home is best.
Fortune comes well to all that comes not late.
I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God’s-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping dust.
A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society.
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes! O drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again.
Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, a shadow on those features fair and thin. And softly, from the hushed and darkened room, two angels issued, where but one went in.
The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone.
Hope has as many lives as a cat or a king.
Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.
I love thee, as the good love heaven.
Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares!
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven’s distant lamps.
Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.
Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.
Youth comes but once in a lifetime.
He that respects himself is safe from others. He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.
Oh, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us!
Silence and solitude, the soul’s best friends.
The soul never grows old.
What child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, when spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails and the misty pennon of the east-wind nailed to the mast.