Ah, tell me not that memory sheds gladness o'er the past, what is recalled by faded flowers, save that they did not last?
How disappointment tracks the steps of hope.
One of the greatest of all mental pleasures is to have our thoughts often divined: ever entered into with sympathy.
Violets!--deep-blue violets! April's loveliest coronets! There are no flowers grow in the vale, kiss'd by the dew, woo'd by the gale,-- None by the dew of the twilight wet, so sweet as the deep-blue violet.
Alas! the praise given to the ear ne'er was nor ne'er can be sincere.
How often, in this cold and bitter world, is the warm heart thrown back upon itself! Cold, careless, are we of another's grief; we wrap ourselves in sullen selfishness.
Pure as the snow the summer sun-- Never at noon hath look 'd upon-- Deep, as is the diamond wave, hidden in the desert cave--Changeless, as the greenest leaves of the wreath the cypress weaves-- Hopeless, often, when most fond-- Without hope or fear beyond its own pale fidelity-- and this woman's love can be.
We might have been - these are but common words, and yet they make the sum of life's bewailing.
Alas, we make a ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, but sleep ourselves at the foot; our high resolves look down upon our slumbering act.
I can pass days stretch'd in the shade of those old cedar trees, watching the sunshine like a blessing fall,- - the breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs, each tree a natural harp,--each different leaf a different note, blent in one vast thanksgiving.
Sneering springs out of the wish to deny; and wretched must that state of mind be that wishes to take refuge in doubt.
Were it not better to forget than to remember and regret?
An apt quotation is like a lamp which flings its light over the whole sentence.
I do love violets; they tell the history of woman's love.
So much to win, so much to lose, no marvel that I fear to choose.
And this is woman's fate: all her affections are called into life by winning flatteries, and then thrown back upon themselves to perish; and her heart, her trusting heart, filled with weak tenderness, is left to bleed or break!
I have no parting sigh to give, so take my parting smile.
Social life is filled with doubts and vain aspirings; solitude, when the imagination is dethroned, is turned to weariness and ennui.
Are we not like the actor of old times, who wore his mask so long his face took its likeness?
I never cast a flower away, a gift of one who car'd for me; a flower--a faded flower, but it was done reluctantly.
Society is like a large piece of frozen water; and skating well is the great art of social life.
Childhood, whose very happiness is love.
I think hearts are very much like glasses. If they do not break with the first ring, they usually last a considerable time.
The apple blossoms' shower of pearl, though blent with rosier hue, as beautiful as woman's blush, as evanescent too.