Nathaniel Parker Willis Quotes
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I have unlearned contempt; it is a sin that is engendered earliest in the soul, and doth beset it like a poison worm feeding on all its beauty.
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I love to go and mingle with the young In the gay festal room--when every heart Is beating faster than the merry tune, And their blue eyes are restless, and their lips Parted with eager joy, and their round cheeks Flush'd with the beautiful motion of the dance.
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T is the work of many a dark hour, many a prayer, to bring the heart back from an infant gone.
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Ah me! the world is full of meetings such as this,--a thrill, a voiceless challenge and reply, and sudden partings after!
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The sin forgiven by Christ in HeavenBy man is cursed alway.
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Like Melrose Abbey, large cities should especially be viewed by moonlight.
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Spring is a beautiful piece of work; and not to be in the country to see it done is the not realizing what glorious masters we are, and how cheerfully, minutely, and unflaggingly the fair fingers of the season broider the world for us.
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The expressive word "quiet" defines the dress, manners, bow, and even physiognomy of every true denizen of St. James and Bond street.
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It is the month of June, The month of leaves and roses, When pleasant sights salute the eyes, And pleasant scents the noses.
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O, when the heart is, full, when bitter thoughts come crowding thickly up for utterance, and the poor common words of courtesy are such a very mockery, how much the bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
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And mad ambition trumpeteth to all.
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One lamp — thy mother’s love — amid the stars Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and before The throne of God, burn through eternity - Holy — as it was lit and lent thee here.
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A lamp is lit in woman's eye; that souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by.
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The rain is playing its soft pleasant tune fitfully on the skylight, and the shade of the fast-flying clouds across my book passed with delicate change.
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But he who never sins can little boast Compared to him who goes and sins no more!
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Gratitude is not only the memory but the homage of the heart- rendered to God for his goodness.
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The highest triumph of art, is the truest presentation of nature.
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The dust is old upon my "sandal-shoon," And still I am a pilgrim; I have roved From wild America to Bosphor's waters, And worshipp'd at innumerable shrines Of beauty; and the painter's art, to me, And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue, And of dead kingdoms, I recall the soul, Sitting amid their ruins.
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The ear in man and beast is an evidence of blood and high breeding.
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Your love in a cottage is hungry, Your vine is a nest for flies- Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, And simplicity talks of pies! You lie down to your shady slumber And wake with a bug in your ear, And your damsel that walks in the morning Is shod like a mountaineer.
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The Spring is here--the delicate footed May, With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers, And with it comes a thirst to be away. In lovelier scenes to pass these sweeter hours.
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Wisdom, sits alone, topmost in heaven: she is its light, its God; and in the heart of man she sits as high, though groveling minds forget her oftentimes, seeing but this world's idols.
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They are all up — the innumerable stars— And hold their place in heaven. ... There they stand, Shining in order, like a living hymn Written in light, awaking at the breath Of the celestial dawn, and praising Him Who made them, with the harmony of sphere.
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I'm weary of my lonely but And of its blasted tree, The very lake is like my lot, So silent constantly-- I've liv'd amid the forest gloom Until I almost fear-- When will the thrilling voices come My spirit thirsts to hear?
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The Italians say that a beautiful woman by her smiles draws tears from our purse.
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The value of life deepens incalculably with the privileges of travel.
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The night is made for tenderness,--so still that the low whisper, scarcely audible, is heard like music,--and so deeply pure that the fond thought is chastened as it springs and on the lip made holy.
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If e'er I win a parting token, 'Tis something that has lost its power-- A chain that has been used and broken, A ruin'd glove, a faded flower; Something that makes my pleasure less, Something that means--forgetfulness.
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Vulgarity is more obvious in satin than in homespun.
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The lily and the rose in her fair face striving for precedence.
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