Do anything but love; or if thou lovest and art a woman, hide thy love from him whom thou dost worship; never let him know how dear he is; flit like a bird before him; lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower; but be not won, or thou wilt, like that bird, when caught and caged, be left to pine neglected and perish in forgetfulness.
I would give worlds, could I believe one-half that is profess'd me; affection! could I think it Thee, when Flattery has caress'd me.
The heart's hushed secret in the soft dark eye.
Down she bent her head upon an arm so white that tears seemed but the natural melting of its snow, touched by the flushed cheek's crimson.
In our road through life we may happen to meet with a man casting a stone reverentially to enlarge the cairn of another which stone he has carried in his bosom to sling against that very other's head.
The rich know not how hard it is to be of needful rest and needful food debarred.
Enthusiasm is the divine particle in our composition: with it we are great, generous, and true; without it, we are little, false, and mean.
Music,--we love it for the buried hopes, the garnered memories, the tender feelings it can summon at a touch.
The stars are so far, far away!
Everything that looks to the future elevates human nature; for life is never so low or so little as when occupied with the present.
My heart is its own grave!
The wind has a language, I would I could learn! Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stern, sometimes it comes like a low sweet song, and all things grow calm, as the sound floats along, and the forest is lull'd by the dreamy strain, and slumber sinks down on the wandering main, and its crystal arms are folded in rest, and the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.
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.