Quotes to inspire and reflect

In creating, the only hard thing’s to begin; A grass-blade’s no easier to make than an oak.

And I honor the man who is willing to sink Half his present repute for the freedom to think, And, when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak, Will risk t’ other half for the freedom to speak.

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with a whole soul’s tasking: ’Tis heaven alone that is given away, ’Tis only God may be had for the asking.

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.

Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not.

Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne— Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.

The nurse of full-grown souls is solitude.

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side.

They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak.

They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.

But not without men’s hands: He could not make Antonio Stradivari’s violins Without Antonio.

Blessed are the horny hands of toil!

O may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence.

Thou shalt not covet, but tradition Approves all forms of competition.

No graven images may be Worshipped, except the currency.

And almost everyone when age, Disease, or sorrows strike him, Inclines to think there is a God, Or something very like Him.

Grace is given of God, but knowledge is bought in the market.

My life has been the poem I would have writ, But I could not both live and utter it.

I am a parcel of vain strivings tied By a chance bond together.

The vessel, though her masts be firm, Beneath her copper bears a worm.

The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed.

We wove a web in childhood, A web of sunny air.

A solitary sail that rises White in the blue mist on the foam— What is it in far lands it prizes? What does it leave behind at home?

It’s a fact the whole world knows, That Pobbles are happier without their toes.

When storm-clouds brood on the towering heights

The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, “Some day you may lose them all”— He replied, “Fish fiddle-de-dee!”

When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain,

“I would be your wife most gladly!” (Here she twirled her fingers madly),

There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking—

On the coast of Coromandel Two old chairs, and half a candle, One old jug without a handle—

Over the syllabub sea.

Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of Swat?

Down to the calico tree, And they never came back to me!

Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a sieve.

“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.”

They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon.

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, “O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are.”

Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?” They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose.

He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers, Leastways if you reckon two thumbs; Long ago he was one of the singers, But now he is one of the dumbs.

His body is perfectly spherical, He weareth a runcible hat.

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! Who has written such volumes of stuff! Some think him ill-tempered and queer, But a few think him pleasant enough.

There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said: “It is just as I feared! Two owls and a hen, Four larks and a wren Have all built their nests in my beard.”

Oh let us love our occupations, Bless the squire and his relations, Live upon our daily rations, And always know our proper stations.

A minute’s success pays the failure of years.

Never the time and the place And the loved one all together!

But little do or can the best of us: That little is achieved through Liberty.

Out of the wreck I rise.

Have you found your life distasteful? My life did and does smack sweet. Was your youth of pleasure wasteful? Mine I saved and hold complete. Do your joys with age diminish? When mine fail me, I’ll complain. Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again.