Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster - children into strength and athletic proportion.
A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Where hast thou wandered. gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?
There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.
Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.
Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
The groves were God's first temples.
A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
The press is a mill that grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.
All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
Loveliest of lovely things are they on earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep tonight.
To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness.
Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories