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.
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.
Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster - children into strength and athletic proportion.
Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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.
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.
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness.
The groves were God's first temples.
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.
To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
For un-subscribe please check the mail footer.