“Books are not seldom talismans and spells.”

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.

Absence of occupation is not rest; A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed.

What is there in the vale of lifeHalf so delightful as a wife;When friendship, love and peace combineTo stamp the marriage-bond divine?

God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs

The Cross! There, and there only (though the deist rave, and the atheist, if Earth bears so base a slave); There and there only, is the power to save.

…So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.

The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.

We who are of mature age seldom suspect how unmercifully and yet with what insight the very young judge us.

First one, then the other, getting the upper hand, and too seldom fusing till the result has the mellowness of full achievement.

When I think of what life is, and how seldom love is answered by love; it is one of the moments for which the world was made.

A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lillies of the swamp.

The dimensions of a work of art are seldom realized by the author until the work is accomplished. It is like a flowering dream. Ideas grow, budding silently, and there are a thousand illuminations coming day by day as the work progresses.

Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not strength enough to prevent it seldom has justice enough to accuse.

What we anticipate seldom occurs: but what we least expect generally happens.