Phoebe Cary Quotes

Women are only told that they resemble angels when they are young and beautiful; consequently, it is their persons, not their virtues, that procure them homage.

O men, grown sick with toil and care, Leave for awhile the crowded mart; O women, sinking with despair, Weary of limb and faint of heart, Forget your years to-day and come As children back to childhood's house.

Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of green, / Where you lie in the sun's embrace; / And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean / To touch your dimpled face.

Give plenty of what is given to you, And listen to pity's call. Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small.

Never is true love blind, but rather brings an added light.

I know not which I love the most, Nor which the comeliest shows, The timid, bashful violet Or the royal-hearted rose: The pansy in purple dress, The pink with cheek of red, Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs, Like a bashful maid her head.

One sweetly solemn thought, comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home today, than I ever have been before.

Only yield when you must, never "give up the ship," but fight on to the last "with a stiff upper lip!

O that one unguarded moment! / Were it mine to live again, / All the strength of its temptation / Would appeal to me in vain.

I think true love is never blind, / But rather brings an added light; / An inner vision quick to find / The beauties hid from common sight.

Books were put out, and 'had a run,' / Like coinage from the mint; / But which could fill the place of one, / That one they wouldn't print?

Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?

But whenever she thanks the givers for favors great and small, she thinks of the good little sister who gave her more than they all.

For of all hard things to bear and grin, / The hardest is knowing you're taken in.

Come up, April, though the valley, / In your robes of beauty drest, / Come and wake your flowery children / From their wintry beds of rest.

And though hard be the task, keep a stiff upper lip.

And never since harvests were ripened, / Or laborers born, / Have men gathered figs of the thistle, / Or grapes of the thorn!

All the great blessings of my life are present in my thoughts today

But alas for the dreams that round us play! / For the plans of mortal making! / And alas for the false and fickle day / That looked so fair at waking!

Sometimes, I think the things we see are shadows of the things to be; that what we plan we build

Death comes not to the living soul, nor age to the living heart.