| Quotes |
Topic |
| Babyhood | Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours? |
| Beauty | What is lovely never dies, But passes into other loveliness, Star-dust, or sea-foam, flower or winged air. |
| Candor | Gracious to all, to none subservient, Without offense he spoke the word he meant. |
| Coquetry | Or light or dark, or short or tall, She sets a springe to snare them all: All's one to her--above her fan She'd make sweet eyes at Caliban. |
| Day | Day is a snow-white Dove of heaven That from the East glad message brings. |
| Death | But when the sun in all his state, Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through glory's morning gate, And walked in Paradise. |
| December | Only the sea intoning, Only the wainscot-mouse, Only the wild wind moaning Over the lonely house. |
| Dreams | When to soft Sleep we give ourselves away, And in a dream as in a fairy bark Drift on and on through the enchanted dark To purple daybreak--little thought we pay To that sweet bitter world we know by day. |
| Eyes | In her eyes a thought Grew sweeter and sweeter, deepening like the dawn, A mystical forewarning. |
| Flowers | The happy bells shall ring Marguerite; The summer birds shall sing Marguerite; You smile but you shall wear Orange blossoms in your hair, Marguerite. |
| Hope | To keep the heart unwrinkled, to be hopeful, kindly, cheerful, reverent-- that is to triumph over old age. |
| Hospitality | When friends are at your hearthside met, Sweet courtesy has done its most If you have made each guest forget That he himself is not the host. |
| Hospitality | If my best wines mislike thy taste, And my best service win thy frown, Then tarry not, I bid thee haste; There's many another Inn in town. |
| Lilies | I like not lady-slippers, Not yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Not yet the flaky roses, Red or white as snow; I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow. |
| May | Hebe's here, May is here! The air is fresh and sunny; And the miser-bees are busy Hoarding golden honey. |
| Night | Night is a stealthy, evil Raven, Wrapt to the eyes in his black wings. |
| October | October turned by maple's leaves to gold; The most are gone now; here and there one lingers; Soon these will slip from the twig's weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser's fingers. |
| Originality | No bird has ever uttered note That was not in some first bird's throat; Since Eden's freshness and man's fall No rose has been original. |
| Parting | Good night! I have to say good night, To such a host of peerless things! |
| Parting | Till then, good-night! You wish the time were now? And I. You do not blush to wish it so? You would have blush'd yourself to death To own so much a year ago. What! both these snowy hands? ah, then I'll have to say, Good-night again. |
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