The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak.
Into each life some rain must fall.
Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.
The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained in sudden flight but, they while their companions slept, they were toiling upwards in the night.
Men of genius are often dull and inert in society as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.
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.
The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service.
Lives of great men all remind us, we can make our lives sublime, and, departing, leave behind us, footprints on the sands of time.
For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
It is difficult to know at what moment love begins it is less difficult to know that it has begun.
It takes less time to do a thing right, than it does to explain why you did it wrong.
Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.
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
Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
Morality without religion is only a kind of dead reckoning - an endeavor to find our place on a cloudy sea by measuring the distance we have run, but without any observation of the heavenly bodies.
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
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each tomorrowFind us farther than today.
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.
There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.
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