Scarcely a tear to shedHardly a word to sayThe end of a Summer's daySweet Love is dead.
Scarcely a tear to shedHardly a word to sayThe end of a Summer's daySweet Love is dead.
Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly each day.
Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide.
I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter.
History of Ireland -- lawlessness and turbulency, robbery and oppression, hatred and revenge, blind selfishness everywhere -- no principle, no heroism. What can be done with it.
If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one: I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me.
Alas in winter, dead and dark,Where can poor Robin go
And in a chair well-knownMy mother sat, and did not tireWith reading all alone.If I should make the slightest soundTo show that I'm awake,She'd rise, and lap the blankets round,My pillow softly shakeKiss me, and turn my face to seeThe shadows on the wall,
I have been an "Official" all my life, without the least turn for it. I never could attain a true official manner, which is highly artificial and handles trifles with ludicrously disproportionate gravity.
But this is not my little bedThat time is far awayWith strangers now I live instead,From dreary day to day.
A man who keeps a diary pays, Due toll to many tedious days But life becomes eventful -- then, His busy hand forgets the pen. Most books, indeed, are records less Of fulness than of emptiness.
I always get back to the question, is it really necessary that men should consume so much of their bodily and mental energies in the machinery of civilized life The world seems to me to do much of its toil for that which is not in any sense bread.
Most books, indeed, are records less Of fullness than emptiness.
Four ducks on a pond, A grass-bank beyond, A blue sky of spring, White clouds on the wing What a little thing To remember for years To remember with tears.
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
Oh, bring again my heart's content,Thou Spirit of the Summer-time
Then spare the wayside flower!
She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting, For fear of little men.
Sin we have explain'd away Unluckily, the sinners stay.
Politeness costs nothing.. . . . Nothing, that is to him that shows it but it often costs the world very dear.
O pale green sea,
With long, pale, purple clouds above -
What lies in me like weight of love ?
Autumn's the mellow time.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories