“The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.”

I seem forsaken and alone, / I hear the lion roar; / And every door is shut but one, / And that is Mercy’s door.

Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.

Men deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.

Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color’d like his own, and having pow’r T’ enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.

Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die

Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock’d in the cradle of the western breeze.

The still small voice is wanted.

The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow, and when we lie down at night we may safely say to most of our troubles, “Ye have done your worst, and we shall see you no more.”

The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear; And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.

O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.

Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa around, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn

Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.

Some people are more nice than wise.

Absence of occupation is not rest.

He’s going on and on and on, and finally he stops. It’s just total horror, and the camera’s still rolling. You can hear it, sort of a grinding noise. And the director says, “Anything else, Bud?”

The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain; God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.

The principle of order in me, around me, and in the world… I would watch the buds swell in spring, the mica glint in the granite, my own hands, and I would say to myself: “I will understand this, too, I will understand everything.

The candle-buds opened their wide white flowers….Their scent spilled out into the air and took possession of the island.

How many thorns of human nature are bristling conceits, buds of promise grown sharp for want of congenial climate.

I regard texture similar to the function of taste buds in our mouths. But in a visual form.

A flower growing from seed to bud to bloom is always where it should be. Everything takes time.

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.