Who longest waits most surely wins.
O month when they who love must love and wed.
Love has a tide!
As soon as I began, it seemed impossible to write fast enough - I wrote faster than I would write a letter - two thousand to three thousand words in a morning, and I cannot help it.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.
When Time is spent, Eternity begins.
The goldenrod is yellow,The corn is turning brown...The trees in apple orchardsWith fruit are bending down.
If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.
Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.
We sail at sunrise daily "outward bound."
If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.
I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.
When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.
Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.
No past is dead for us but only sleeping love.
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt and limps off the field piteous all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it...
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
