For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: 'It might have been!'
Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.
Here Greek and Roman find themselves alive along these crowded shelves;
and Shakespeare treads again his stage, and Chaucer paints anew his age.
No longer forward nor behind I look in hope or fear;
But, grateful, take the good I find,The best of now and here.
Oh, for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day,Health that mocks the doctor's rules,Knowledge never learned of schools.
When faith is lost, when honor dies, the man is dead.
Speak out in acts; the time for words has passed, and only deeds will suffice.
But beauty seen is never lost, God
Clothe with life the weak intent, let me be the thing I meant.
Peace hath higher tests of manhood than battle ever knew.
Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young.
Peace hath higher tests of manhood, than battle ever knew.
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, that all of thee we loved and cherished has with thy summer roses perished; and left, as its young beauty fled, an ashen memory in its stead.
On leaf of palm, on sedge-wrought roll;
on plastic clay and leather scroll, man wrote his thoughts; the ages passed, and lo! the Press was found at last!
The best of a book is not the thought which it contains, but the thought which it suggests; just as the charm of music dwells not in the tones but in the echoes of our hearts.
O Time and change! -- with hair as gray as was my sire's that winter day, how strange it seems, with so much gone of life and love, to still live on!
The dreariest spot in all the land to Death they set apart;
with scanty grace from Nature's hand, and none from that of Art.
God's colors all are fast.
Through this broad street, restless ever, Ebbs and flows a human tide,Wave on wave a living river;Wealth and fashion side by side;Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick current glide.
One brave deed makes no hero.
Of all that Orient lands can vaunt, of marvels with our own competing, the strangest is the Haschish plant, and what will follow on its eating.
All the windows of my heart I open to the day.
Oh, for boyhood's painless play, sleep that wakes in laughing day, health that mocks the doctor's rules, knowledge never learned of schools.
Give fools their gold, and knaves their power;
Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall; Who sows a field, or trains a flower, Or plants a tree, is more than all.
Yet sometimes glimpses on my sight,Through present wrong the eternal right;
And, step by step, since time began,I see the steady gain of man...
How dwarfed against his manliness she sees the poor pretension, the wants, the aims, the follies, born of fashion and convention!
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,From North and South, come the pilgrim and guest,When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his boardThe old broken links of affection restored,When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before.What moistens the lips and what brightens the eye?What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?
Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well.