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.
For bells are the voice of the church; They have tones that touch and search The hearts of young and old.
Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
Each day is a branch of the Tree of Life laden heavily with fruit. If we lie down lazily beneath it, we may starve; but if we shake the branches, some of the fruit will fall for us.
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.
It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.
There are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.
Our hearts are lamps for ever burning...
In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face the face of one long dead Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
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.
Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us.
How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!
The rays of happiness, like those of light, are colorless when unbroken.
It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.
There is no light in earth or heaven but the cold light of stars; and the first watch of night is given to the red planet Mars.
Look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not in anger.
The day is done; and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver!
If the mind, that rules the body, ever so far forgets itself as to trample on its slave, the slave is never generous enough to forgive the injury, but will rise and smite the oppressor.
The dawn is not distant, nor is the night starless; love is eternal.