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It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald and sear :
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
It was the plant and flower of light.
We find in life exactly what we put in it.
-Emerson. Duty done is the soul's fireside.
-Browning Can a man help imitating that with which he holds reverential converse ?
Discretion of speech is more than eloquence.
-Bacon. Is anything more wonderful than another, if you consider it maturely? I have seen no man rise from the dead; I have seen some thousands rise from nothing. I have not force to fly into the sun, but I have force to lift my hand, which is equally strange.
-Carlyle. As you grow ready for it, somewhere or other you will find what is needful for you, in a book, or a friend, or, best of all, in your own thoughts, the eternal thought speaking in your thought.
-George Macdonald. A house is no home unless it contain food and fire for the mind as well as for the body.
- Margaret Fuller Ossoli.
Rest is not quitting
The busy career; Rest is the fitting
Of self to its sphere: 'Tis loving and serving
The highest and best; 'Tis onward, unswerving, And that is true rest.
-John S. Dwight.
D OF THE
Manners are the happy ways of doing things. . . If they are superficial, so are the dewdrops, which give such a depth to the morning meadow.
- Emerson. A higher morality, like a higher intelligence, must be reached by a slow growth. —Herbert Spencer.
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds
sang west, And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed
around our incompleteness, Round our restlessness, His rest.
- Mrs. Browning. Then wisely weigh Our sorrow with our comfort.
- The Tempest. Books are embalmed minds.
Great men seem to be a part of the infinite, brothers of the mountains and the seas. -Ingersoll.
“Truth can be outraged by silence quite as cruelly as by speech.”
It was a dark, chill, misty morning, like to end in rain; one of those mornings when even happy people take refuge in their hopes.
- George Eliot.
Habit is a cable; we weave a thread of it every day, and at last we cannot break it. Horace Mann.