Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
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.
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
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.
O month when they who love must love and wed.
I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.
The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
Love has a tide!
Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.
There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.
On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They call'd him dead; And made his eldest son, one day, Slave in his father's stead.
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