A blossom full of promise is life's joy, that never comes to fruit. Hope, for a time, suns the young floweret in its gladsome light, and it looks flourishing--a little while-- 't is pass'd, we know not whither, but 't is gone.
Eyes that droop like summer flowers.
My tears are buried in my heart, like cave-locked fountains sleeping.
There is a large stock on hand; but somehow or other, nobody's experience ever suits us but our own.
A brier rose whose buds yield fragrant harvest for the honey bee.
Few, save the poor, feel for the poor.
Oh! only those whose souls have felt this one idolatry, can tell how precious is the slightest thing affection gives and hallows! A dead flower will long be kept, remembrancer of looks that made each leaf a treasure.
These are the spiders of society; they weave their petty webs of lies and sneers, and lie themselves in ambush for the spoil, the web seems fair, and glitters in the sun, and the poor victim winds him in the toil before he dreams of danger or of death.
A sealed book, at whose contents we tremble.
Had he not long read the heart's hushed secret in the soft, dark eye, lighted at his approach, and on the cheek, coloring all crimson at his lightest look?
Oh, no! my heart can never be again in lightest hopes the same; the love that lingers there for thee hath more of ashes than of flame.
Thou know'st how fearless is my trust in thee.
A woman's fame is the tomb of her happiness.
Hopes and regrets are the sweetest links of existence.
Oh, only those whose souls have felt this one idolatry can tell how precious is the slightest thing affection gives and hallows.
Thy voice is sweet as if it took its music form thy face.
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.