Lives of great men all remind us, we can make our lives sublime, and, departing, leave behind us, footprints on the sands of time.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
He spoke well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
The grave itself is but a covered bridge, leading from light to light, through a brief darkness.
If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun.
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.
We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.
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.
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.
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
The love of learning, the sequestered nooks,
And all the sweet serenity of books
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.
Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
The dawn is not distant, nor is the night starless; love is eternal.
It takes less time to do a thing right, than it does to explain why you did it wrong.
Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives,When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives,Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain,But never will be sung to us again,Is they remembrance. Now the hour of restHath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.
O, never from the memory of my heartYour dear, paternal image shall depart,Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised,Taught me how mortals are immortalized;How grateful am I for that patient careAll my life long my language shall declare.
I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart