If you would grow great and stately, You must try to walk sedately.
Things looked at patiently from one side after another generally end by showing a side that is beautiful.
A great part of life consists of contemplating what we cannot cure.
Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet, A man goes riding by.
To love playthings well as a child, to lead an adventurous and honorable youth, and to settle when the time arrives, into a green and smiling age, is to be a good artis en life and deserve well of yourself and your neighbor.
It is not enough to be ready to go where duty calls. A man should stand around where he can hear the call!
Benjamin Franklin went through life an altered man because he once paid too dearly for a penny whistle. My concern springs usually from a deeper source, to wit, from having bought a whistle when I did not want one.
He who has learned to love an art or science has wisely laid up riches against the day of riches.
And this shall be for music when no one else is near, The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.
Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remembers how!
I know what happiness is, for I have done good work.
Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; And charging along like troops in a battle, All through the meadows the horses and cattle.
An aspiration is a joy forever, a possession as solid as a landed estate.
With the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night That somehow the right is the right And the smooth shall bloom from the rough: Lord, if that were enough?
We all know what Parliament is, and we are all ashamed of it.
We live in an ascending scale when we live happily, one thing leading to another in an endless series.
Well, well, Henry James is pretty good, though he is of the nineteenth century, and that glaringly.
The web, then, or the pattern, a web at once sensuous and logical, an elegant and pregnant texture: that is style, that is the foundation of the art of literature.
There is no progress whatever. Everything is just the same as it was thousands, and tens of thousands, of years ago. The outward form changes. The essence does not change.
Man is a creature who lives not upon bread alone, but primarily by catchwords.