[Politeness costs nothing.]. . . . Nothing, that is to him that shows it; but it often costs the world very dear. |
A man who keeps a diary pays, Due toll to many tedious days; But life becomes eventful - then, His busy hand forgets the pen. Most books, indeed, are records less Of fulness than of emptiness. |
Alas! in winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go? |
And in a chair well-known
My mother sat, and did not tire With reading all alone. If I should make the slightest sound To show that I'm awake, She'd rise, and lap the blankets round, My pillow softly shake; Kiss me, and turn my face to see The shadows on the wall, And then sing Rousseau's Dream to me, Till fast asleep I fall. |
Autumn's the mellow time. |
Before a day was over,
Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss—sweeter this Than any other thing! |
But this is not my little bed;
That time is far away; With strangers now I live instead, From dreary day to day. |
Four ducks on a pond, / A grass-bank beyond, / A blue sky of spring, / White clouds on the wing: / What a little thing / To remember for years - / To remember with tears! |
I always get back to the question, is it really necessary that men should consume so much of their bodily and mental energies in the machinery of civilized life? The world seems to me to do much of its toil for that which is not in any sense bread. Again, does not the latent feeling that much of their striving is to no purpose tend to infuse large quantities of sham into men's work?'' |
I believe in Success,
And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter. |
I believe in Success, And in Comfort no less I believe all the rest is but patter. |
I have been an "Official" all my life, without the least turn for it. I never could attain a true official manner, which is highly artificial and handles trifles with ludicrously disproportionate gravity. |
If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one:
I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me. |
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods
And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt. |
Oh, bring again my heart's content,
Thou Spirit of the Summer-time! |