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When Time is spent, Eternity begins.
If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for the Negro, I would be thankful... →
When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.
I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.
Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.
Love has a tide!
On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They call'd him dead; And made his eldest son, one day, Slave in his father's... →
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