Buried was the bloody hatchet; Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten. Then was peace among the nations.
Know how sublime a thing it is to suffer and be strong.
Trouble is the next best thing to enjoyment; there is no fate in the world so horrible as to have no share in either its joys or sorrows.
Ah, how skillful grows the hand That obeyeth Love’s command! It is the heart and not the brain That to the highest doth attain, And he who followeth Love’s behest Far excelleth all the rest.
It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun.
There is nothing in this world so sweet as love, and next to love, the sweetest thing is hate.
Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine.
As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so changes of studies a dull brain.