This site is dedicated to the memory of Dr. Alan William Smolowe who gave birth to the creation of this database.
Richard Jefferies, fully John Richard Jefferies
Or it is morning on the hills, when Hope is as wide as the world; or it is the evening on the shore
Hope |
Richard L. Evans, fully Richard Louis Evans
Realize that the privilege to work is a gift. Love of work is success. Be thankful that every morning that you get up that you have something that must be done (whether you like it or not).
Morality, distinguished from and independent of Christian faith, is nothing; but Christian morality is of the very essence; it is the true fruit, the sure testimony, the faithful companion, the glory and perfection, yea, the very life and soul of true Christian faith. Let us beware, that we do not confound things so different as worldly and Christian morality; as the works of the natural man and those of the disciples of Christ.
The morning was glorious, one of those crystalline, dry, blue, fall days when the temperature hovers right at anticipation.
Right |
A truly great book should be read in youth, again in maturity and once more in old age, as a fine building should be seen by morning light, at noon and by moonlight.
Old |
Robert Benchley, fully Robert Charles Benchley
As the storm came nearer I began to realize that I hadn't made the most of my three years' immunity. In fact, I hadn't done a single thing about cleaning up my life. I was, if anything, an even more logical target for lightning than the last time I was in range. And thunderstorms don't creep up on you at seven o'clock in the morning in a non-thunderstorm country for nothing, you know. I lined up a rather panicky schedule of reforms.
Time |
Robert Byrd, fully Robert Carlyle Byrd
I will never submit to fight beneath that banner with a Negro by my side. Rather I should die a thousand times, and see Old Glory trampled in the dirt never to rise again, than to see this beloved land of ours become degraded by race mongrels, a throwback to the blackest specimen from the wilds.
The Road Not Taken - Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
He thought he kept the universe alone; For all the voice in answer he could wake Was but the mocking echo of his own From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake. Some morning from the boulder-broken beach He would cry out on life, that what it wants Is not its own love back in copy speech, But counter-love, original response. And nothing ever came of what he cried Unless it was the embodiment that crashed In the cliff's talus on the other side, And then in the far-distant water splashed, But after a time allowed for it to swim, Instead of proving human when it neared And someone else additional to him, As a great buck it powerfully appeared, Pushing the crumpled water up ahead, And landed pouring like a waterfall, And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread, And forced the underbrush--and that was all.
Robert Southwell, also Saint Robert Southwell
Upon the Image of Death - Before my face the picture hangs That daily should put me in mind Of those cold names and bitter pangs That shortly I am like to find ; But yet, alas, full little I Do think hereon that I must die. I often look upon a face Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin ; I often view the hollow place Where eyes and nose had sometimes been ; I see the bones across that lie, Yet little think that I must die. I read the label underneath, That telleth me whereto I must ; I see the sentence eke that saith Remember, man, that thou art dust! But yet, alas, but seldom I Do think indeed that I must die. Continually at my bed's head A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I ere morning may be dead, Though now I feel myself full well ; But yet, alas, for all this, I Have little mind that I must die. The gown which I do use to wear, The knife wherewith I cut my meat, And eke that old and ancient chair Which is my only usual seat,— All these do tell me I must die, And yet my life amend not I. My ancestors are turned to clay, And many of my mates are gone ; My youngers daily drop away, And can I think to 'scape alone? No, no, I know that I must die, And yet my life amend not I. Not Solomon for all his wit, Nor Samson, though he were so strong, No king nor person ever yet Could 'scape but death laid him along ; Wherefore I know that I must die, And yet my life amend not I. Though all the East did quake to hear Of Alexander's dreadful name, And all the West did likewise fear To hear of Julius Cæsar's fame, Yet both by death in dust now lie ; Who then can 'scape but he must die? If none can 'scape death's dreadful dart, If rich and poor his beck obey, If strong, if wise, if all do smart, Then I to 'scape shall have no way. Oh, grant me grace, O God, that I My life may mend, sith I must die.
Art | Death | Life | Life | Little | Mind | Art | Old | Think |
Trust in God, as Moses did, let the way be ever so dark; and it shall come to pass that your life at last shall surpass even your longing. Not, it may be, in the line of that longing, that shall be as it pleaseth God; but the glory is as sure as the grace, and the most ancient heavens are not more sure than that.
The Trial By Existence - Even the bravest that are slain Shall not dissemble their surprise On waking to find valor reign, Even as on earth, in paradise; And where they sought without the sword Wide fields of asphodel fore’er, To find that the utmost reward Of daring should be still to dare. The light of heaven falls whole and white And is not shattered into dyes, The light for ever is morning light; The hills are verdured pasture-wise; The angel hosts with freshness go, And seek with laughter what to brave;— And binding all is the hushed snow Of the far-distant breaking wave. And from a cliff-top is proclaimed The gathering of the souls for birth, The trial by existence named, The obscuration upon earth. And the slant spirits trooping by In streams and cross- and counter-streams Can but give ear to that sweet cry For its suggestion of what dreams! And the more loitering are turned To view once more the sacrifice Of those who for some good discerned Will gladly give up paradise. And a white shimmering concourse rolls Toward the throne to witness there The speeding of devoted souls Which God makes his especial care. And none are taken but who will, Having first heard the life read out That opens earthward, good and ill, Beyond the shadow of a doubt; And very beautifully God limns, And tenderly, life’s little dream, But naught extenuates or dims, Setting the thing that is supreme. Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in its nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth. The tale of earth’s unhonored things Sounds nobler there than ’neath the sun; And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one. But always God speaks at the end: ’One thought in agony of strife The bravest would have by for friend, The memory that he chose the life; But the pure fate to which you go Admits no memory of choice, Or the woe were not earthly woe To which you give the assenting voice.’ And so the choice must be again, But the last choice is still the same; And the awe passes wonder then, And a hush falls for all acclaim. And God has taken a flower of gold And broken it, and used therefrom The mystic link to bind and hold Spirit to matter till death come. ‘Tis of the essence of life here, Though we choose greatly, still to lack The lasting memory at all clear, That life has for us on the wrack Nothing but what we somehow chose; Thus are we wholly stripped of pride In the pain that has but one close, Bearing it crushed and mystified.
Agony | Awe | Choice | Daring | Death | Existence | Fate | God | Gold | Good | Heart | Heaven | Laughter | Life | Life | Light | Little | Memory | Mind | Pain | Pride | Reward | Sacrifice | Spirit | Thought | Valor | Valor | Witness | Woe | Wonder | Fate | Trial | God | Thought |
Salomon ibn Gabirol, aka Solomon ben Judah or Avicebron
Root of our saviour, The scion of Jesse, Till when wilt thou linger, Invisible, buried? Bring forth a flower, For winter is over! Why should a slave rule The lineage of princes, A hairy barbarian Replace our young sovran? The years are a thousand Since, broken and scattered, We wander in exile, Like waterfowl lost in The depths of the desert. No man in white linen Reveals at our asking The end of our Exile. God sealed up the matter, And closed up the knowledge.
Art | Body | Earth | Grace | Lord | Praise | Rest | Soul | Will | Art |