No man can be called friendless when he has God and the companionship of good books.
God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.
Women known The way to rear up children (to be just) They know a simple, merry, tender knack Of tying sashes, fitting baby shoes And stringing pretty words that make no sense.
Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.
Whoso loves, believes the impossible.
Think, In mounting higher, The angels would press on us, and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence.
He said true things, but called them by wrong names.
Best be yourself, imperial, plain and true
A woman's always younger than a man of equal years.
The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental; it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust.
The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase, 'Let no one be called happy till his death;' to which I would add, 'Let no one, till his death, be called unhappy.'
Experience, like a pale musician, holds a dulcimer of patience in his hand.
Since when was genius found respectable?
God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers, And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face, A gauntlet with a gift in it
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death