O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer’s best of weather And autumn’s best of cheer.
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what’s in a name?
I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
O May, sweet-voice one, going thus before, Forever June may pour her warm red wine Of life and passions, – sweeter days are thine!
The voice of one who goes before, to makeThe paths of June more beautiful, is thineSweet May!
Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last.
That indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they have.
Now and then one sees a face which has kept its smile pure and undefiled. Such a smile transfigures; such a smile, if the artful but know it, is the greatest weapon a face can have.
Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.
Most men call fretting a minor fault, a foible, and not a vice. There is no vice except drunkenness which can so utterly destroy the peace, the happiness of a hoe.
Next time!? In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?
Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one’s self...
O month when they who love must love and wed.
Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.
The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.
There cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its own range of circumstance and connection, as the greater majority of human beings are in the bosoms of their families.
Who longest waits most surely wins.
For April sobs while these are so glad April weeps while these are so gay,- Weeps like a tired child who had, Playing with flowers, lost its way.