Though Duty's face is stern, her path is best: They sweetly sleep who die upon her breast.
Henry AbbeyThe artist labors while he may, But finds at best too brief the day; And, tho' his works outlast the time And nation that they make sublime, He feels and sees that Nature knows Nothing of time in what she does, But has a leisure infinite Wherein to do her work aright.
Henry AbbeyOur yesterdays Are like a lonely and a ruined land Wherein a breeze of recollection sighs-- A fading land to which is no return.
Henry AbbeyAll governments, Books, customs, buildings, railways, ships, and all the stark realities that men have made, Are but imagination's utterances.
Henry Abbey