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

Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head

In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.

After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all.

Alas! if my best Friend, who laid down His life for me, were to remember all the instances in which I have neglected Him, and to plead them against me in judgment, where should I hide my guilty head in the day of recompense?

Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in

There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.

He that has seen both sides of fifty has lived to little purpose if he has no other views of the world than he had when he was much younger.

The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.

An idler is a watch that wants both hands; As useless if it goes as when it stands.

If my resolution to be a great man was half so strong as it is to despise the shame of being a little one.

Existence is a strange bargain. Life owes us little; we owe it everything.

What peaceful hours I once enjoy’d! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.

Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame; He hides behind a magisterial air He own offences, and strips others’ bare.

Pride made the devil, and the devil made sin; So God made a cole-pit to put the devil in.

God made bees, and bees made honey, God made man, and man made money,

Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain.

And he nipped them in the bud, right at the end

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.