Quotes to inspire and reflect

The long mysterious Exodus of death.

If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning.

As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman, Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him, yet she follows, Useless each without the other!

From the waterfall he named her, Minnehaha, Laughing Water.

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.

Sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate!

All your strength is in your union. All your danger is in discord; Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together.

And see! she stirs! She starts—she moves—she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel.

Build me straight, O worthy Master! Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel.

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks… Stand like Druids of old.

The bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.

And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night’s repose.

Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate’er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.

Under the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith a mighty man is he With large and sinewy hands. And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman’s Woe!

But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.

It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime. And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls.

Since when was genius found respectable?

A little sunburnt by the glare of life.

I should not dare to call my soul my own.

Makes awful lightning.

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

Because God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.

“Guess now who holds thee?”—“Death,” I said. But there The silver answer rang—“Not Death, but Love.”

Therefore to this dog will I, Tenderly not scornfully, Render praise and favor.

I tell you hopeless grief is passionless.

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years?

Knowledge by suffering entereth, And life is perfected by death.

Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man.

I am the owner of the sphere, Of the seven stars and the solar year, Of Caesar’s hand, and Plato’s brain, Of Lord Christ’s heart, and Shakespeare’s strain.

If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again. 1

They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

It is time to be old, To take in sail.

Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime.

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.

Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man, When Duty whispers low, Thou must, The youth replies, I can.