Speak out in acts; the time for words has passed, and only deeds will suffice.
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!
Beauty seen is never lost, God's colors all are fast.
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.
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.
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.
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.
When faith is lost, when honor dies, the man is dead.
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.
One brave deed makes no hero.
Here Greek and Roman find themselves alive along these crowded shelves; and Shakespeare treads again his stage, and Chaucer paints anew his age.
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!
How dwarfed against his manliness she sees the poor pretension, the wants, the aims, the follies, born of fashion and convention!
Oh, for boyhood's painless play, sleep that wakes in laughing day, health that mocks the doctor's rules, knowledge never learned of schools.
Peace hath higher tests of manhood than battle ever knew.
For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: It might have been!
Clothe with life the weak intent, let me be the thing I meant.