Quote: The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide...

Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, The tumult of the time disconsolate To inarticulate murmurs dies away, While the eternal ages watch and wait.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Finds us further than to-day.

Men of genius are often dull and inert in society, as a Blazing meteor when it descends to earth, is only a stone.

But the good deed, through the ages, Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust.

Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.

Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice Triumphs.

Buried was the bloody hatchet; Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten. Then was peace among the nations.

A thought often makes us hotter than a fire.

All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.

All things must change to something new, to something strange.

And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

And the night shall be filled with music and the cares, that infest the day, shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, and as silently steal away.

Enjoy the spring of love and youth, To some good angel leave the rest; For time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year's nest.

As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so changes of studies a dull brain.

How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow Into the arctic regions of our lives, Where little else than life itself survives.

But noble souls, through dust and heat, Rise from disaster and defeat The stronger.

So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good, So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure.

Each morning sees some task begun, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.

God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.

His brow is wet with honest sweat he earns whatever he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.

How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams with its illusions, aspirations, dreams! Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!

Art is the child of Nature; yes, her darling child in whom we trace The features of the mother's face, Her aspect and her attitude.

Trouble is the next best thing to enjoyment; there is no fate in the world so horrible as to have no share in either its joys or sorrows.

We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.

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.

The rays of happiness, like those of light, Are colorless when unbroken.

The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.

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.

The counterfeit and counterpart Of Nature reproduced in art.

The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone.

Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!

So when a great man dies, For years beyond our ken, The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men.

All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.

With many readers brilliancy of style passes for affluence of thought; they mistake buttercups in the grass for immeasurable mines of gold under ground.

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

Trust no future, however pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act, - act in the living Present! Heart within and God overhead.

Write on your doors the saying wise and old. Be bold! and everywhere - Be bold; Be not too bold! Yet better the excess Than the defect; better the more than less...

Something attempted, something done, Has earned a nights repose.

Nothing is or can be accidental with God.

The heights by great men reached and kept, Were not obtained by sudden flight But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night. Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern unseen before, A path to higher destinies.

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, act in the living present! Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.

Wouldst thouso the helmsman answered, Learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery!

A banner with the strange device.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.

Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending.

The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.

But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

Christmas Bells I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men! And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroke

The hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain.

Into a world unknown,the corner-stone of a nation!

Write on your doors the saying wise and old. 'Be bold!' and everywhere 'Be bold; Be not too bold!' Yet better the excess Than the defect; better the more than less sustaineth him and the steadiness of his mind beareth him out.

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

Good-night! good-night! as we so oft have said, Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days That are no more, and shall no more return. Thou hast but taken up thy lamp and gone to bed; I stay a little longer, as one stays To cover up the embers that still burn.

There is a reaper whose name is Death, And with his sickle keen He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

There is no death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death.

Be still, sad heart and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

Every dewdrop and raindrop had a whole heaven within it.

You would attain to the divine perfection....

The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead.

Sometimes we learn more from a mans errors than from his virtues.

And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

In character, in manner, in style, in all things, the supreme excellence is simplicity.

Fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.

No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own.

There is nothing holier in this life of ours that the first consciousness of love the first fluttering of its silken wings the first rising sound and breath of that wind which is soon to sweep through the soul, to purify or destroy.

This is the forest primeval.

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps.

Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

A Psalm of Life. Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all: Into each life some rain must fall; Some days must be dark and dreary.

Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy and sorrow learn; Something with passion clasp, or perish And in itself to ashes burn.

'Do not fear! Heaven is as near,' He said, 'by water as by land!'

Whenever nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest.

The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright. The house is full of life and light.

Sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate!

Hospitality sitting with Gladness.

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

In this world a man must be either anvil or hammer.

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.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. 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

Joy, temperance, and repose, Slam the door on the doctors nose.

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead.

O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands; life hath snares!

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing; Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a silence.

Our ingress into the world Was naked and bare; Our progress through the world Is trouble and care; Our egress from the world Will be nobody knows where; But if we do well here We shall do well there; And I could tell you no more, Should I preach a whole year!

There was a little girl Who had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead, When she was good She was very, very good, But when she was bad she was horrid.

Look, then, into thine heart, and write!

Love gives itself; it is not bought.

Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been.

The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark.

The mind of the scholar, if he would leave it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds.

Music is the universal language of mankind.... poetry their universal pastime and delight.

Music is the universal language of mankind.

Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again.

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, and with a manly heart.

All things come round to him who will but wait.

The prayer of Ajax was for light.

Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

Standing with reluctant feet Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!

It takes less time to do a thing right than it does to explain why you did it wrong.

She floats upon the river of his thoughts.

A feeling of sadness and longing That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.

The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.

He has singed the beard of the king of Spain.

Sleep ... Oh! how I loathe those little slices of death ....

Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.

Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.

O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones, who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried!

No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there; There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair.

Not in the clamor of the crowded street, Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

For Time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year's nest!

Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.

Time has laid his hand Upon my heart gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

Oh, what a glory doth this world put on, for him who with a fervent heart goes forth under the bright and glorious sky, and looks on duties well performed, and days well spent.

God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting.

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor. Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead Which, the more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

The star of the unconquered will.

Saint Augustine! well has thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame! ... 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.

Under the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.... He earns whateer he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.... Toiling,rejoicing,sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a nights repose.

It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.

Nothing that is can pause or stay; The moon will wax, the moon will wane, The mist and cloud will turn to rain, The rain to mist and cloud again, Tomorrow be today.

Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, Who, armed with golden rod And winged with the celestial azure, bearest The message of some God.

Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll.

With useless endeavour Forever, forever, Is Sisyphus rolling His stone up the mountain!

Talk not of wasted affection; affection never was wasted.

If Spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change! But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity. To most men only the cessation of the miracle would be miraculous and the perpetual exercise of God's power seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be.

Age is opportunity no less than youth itself.

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.

He that respects himself is safe from others; He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.

The height of great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night.

Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.

Nature is a revelation of God; Art a revelation of man.

The everyday cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time, giving its pendulum a true vibration and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon its wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move the clock stands still.

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need.

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