Love will subsist on wonderfully little hope but not altogether without it.
Soldier, rest! Thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Dream of battled fields no more. Days of danger, nights of waking.
We often praise the evening clouds, And tints so gay and bold, But seldom think upon our God, Who tinged these clouds with gold.
Adversity is, to me at least, a tonic and a bracer.
Within that awful volume lies The mystery of mysteries!
He who indulges his sense in any excesses renders himself obnoxious to his own reason; and, to gratify the brute in him, displeases the man, and sets his two natures at variance.