Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what’s in a name?
Next time!” In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?
Will not the Senorita trust me?”Ramona smiled faintly through her tears. “Yes,” she said. “I will trust you. You are Alessandro, are you not?””Yes, Senorita,” he answered, greatly surprised, “I am Alessandro.
But undying memories stood like sentinels in her breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each other, fell on her ear, her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice saying, “Majella!
Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.
The goldenrod is yellow,The corn is turning brown…The trees in apple orchardsWith fruit are bending down.
Now and then one sees a face which has kept its smile pure and undefiled. Such a smile transfigures such a smile if the artful but know it is the greatest weapon a face can have.
Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.
There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt and limps off the field piteous all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in another.
When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.
I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
As soon as I began, it seemed impossible to write fast enough – I wrote faster than I would write a letter – two thousand to three thousand words in a morning, and I cannot help it.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer’s best of weather And autumn’s best of cheer.
If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.
If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.