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A torn jacket is soon mended but hard words bruise the heart of a child. |
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All things must change to something new, to something strange. |
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Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think. |
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Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending. |
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He that respects himself is safe from others. He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce. |
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If I am not worth the wooing, I am surely not worth the winning. |
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If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm any hostility. |
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It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it. |
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It takes less time to do things right than to explain why you did it wrong. |
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Know how sublime a thing is to suffer and be strong. |
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Learn to labour and to wait. |
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Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate Still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait. |
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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. |
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Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future, without fear. |
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Men of genius are often dull and inert in society, as a blazing meteor when it descends to earth, is only a stone. |
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Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions. |
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Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. |
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Sometimes we may learn more from a man's errors, than from his virtues. |
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Talk not of wasted affection affection never was wasted. |
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Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted, If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning Back to their springs, like the rain shall fill them full of refreshment That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. |
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Tell me not, in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dreamFor the soul is dead that slumbers,and things are not what they seem.Life is real Life is earnestAnd the grave is not its goalDust thou art to dust returnest,Was not spoken of the soul. |
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The adoration of his heart had been to her only as the perfume of a wild flower, which she had carelessly crushed with her foot in passing. |
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The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night. |
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The holiest of holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart The secret anniversaries of the heart. |
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The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books. |
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The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. |
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The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air. |
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The shades of night were falling fast,As though an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,ExcelsiorHis brow was sad his eye beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior. |
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The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well, and doing well whatever you do without thought of fame. If it comes at all it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after. |
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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. |
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To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be. |
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To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgement of others. |
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To which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. |
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Trust no future, however pleasant Let the dead past bury its dead Act, - act in the living Present Heart within and God overhead. |
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We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done. |
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We see but dimly through the mists and vapors Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funeral tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. |
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