Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Follow thou thy choice.
The victory of endurance born.
Ah! never shall the land forget.
Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
Is not thy home among the flowers?
The groves were God's first temples.
The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
Features, the great soul's apparent seat.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
All great poets have been men of great knowledge.
Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician.
I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings.
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.