There is no death! What seems so is transition; this life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life elysian, whose portal we call Death.
A solid man of Boston; A comfortable man with dividends, And the first salmon and the first green peas.
The picture that approaches sculpture nearest Is the best picture.
It is Lucifer, The son of mystery; And since God suffers him to be, He too, is God’s minister, And labors for some good By us not understood.
Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.
A spirit of criticism, if indulged in, leads to a censoriousness of disposition that is destructive of all nobler feeling. The man who lives to find faults has a miserable mission.
Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.
Don’t cross the bridge til you come to it.
Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, let us be merciful as well as just.
Truly, this world can get on without us, if we would but think so.
You know I say just what I think, and nothing more and less. I cannot say one thing and mean another.
No man is so poor as to have nothing worth giving.
I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where.
Fair words gladden so many a heart.
But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.
Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice triumphs.
Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole heaven within it.
Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest of all the arts.
The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if newborn; There was nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet.