Contents
-BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.
D. M. Mulock
Alack, this worldIs full of change, change, change—nothing but change!
As we sail through life towards death,Bound unto the same port—heaven—Friend, what years could us divide?
Autumn to winter, winter into spring,Spring into summer, summer into fall,—So rolls the changing year, and so we change;Motion so swift, we know not that we move.
By the fireside still the light is shining,The children’s arms round the parents twining.From love so sweet, O who would roam?Be it ever so homely, home is home.
Forgotten? No, we never do forget;We let the years go; wash them clean with tears,Leave them to bleach out in the open day,Or lock them careful by, like dead friends’ clothes,Till we shall dare unfold them without pain—But we forget not, never can forget.
God rest ye, little children; let nothing you affright,For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born this happy night;Along the hills of Galilee the white flocks sleeping lay,When Christ, the Child of Nazareth, was born on Christmas Day.
ImmortalityAlone could teach, this mortal how to die.
It is the Christmas time:And up and down ’twixt heaven and earth,In glorious grief and solemn mirth,The shining angels climb.
Loud wind, strong wind, sweeping o’er the mountains,Fresh wind, free wind, blowing from the sea,Pour forth thy vials like streams from airy mountains,Draughts of life to me.
O how beautiful is morning!How the sunbeams strike the daisiesAnd the kingcups fill the meadowLike a golden-shielded armyMarching to the uplands fair.
O how grandly cometh Even,Sitting on the mountain summit,Purple-vestured, grave, and silent,Watching o’er the dewy valleys,Like a good king near his end.
O, the sweet, sweet twilight just before the time of rest,When the black clouds are driven away, and the stormy winds suppressed.
Poor robin, driven in by rain-storms wildTo lie submissive under household handsWith beating heart that no love understands,And scared eye, like a childWho only knows that he is all aloneAnd summer’s gone.
Sing away, ay, sing away,Merry little bird,Always gayest of the gay,Though a woodland roundelayYou ne’er sung nor heard;Though your life from youth to agePasses in a narrow cage.
The buttercups across the fieldMade sunshine rifts of splendor.
Two hands upon the breast,And labor’s done;Two pale feet cross’d in rest,The race is won.
The irrevocable HandThat opes the year’s fair gate, doth ope and shutThe portals of our earthly destinies;We walk through blindfold, and the noiseless doorsClose after us forever.
A secret at home is like rocks under tide.
Action is the parent of results; dormancy, the brooding mother of discontent.
Ethics, as has been well said, are the finest fruits of humanity, but they are not its roots.
In the June twilight, in the soft gray twilight, the yellow sun-glow trembling through the rainy eve.
One only “right” we have to assert in common with mankind—and that is as much in our hands as theirs—is the right of having something to do.
Our natural and happiest life is when we lose ourselves in the exquisite absorption of home, the delicious retirement of dependent love.
Silence sweeter is than speech.
The buttercups across the field made sunshine rifts of splendor.
The life of action is nobler than the life of thought.
The present only is a man’s possession; the past is gone out of his hand wholly, irrevocably. He may suffer from it, learn from it,—in degree, perhaps, expiate it; but to brood over it is utter madness.
There are no judgments so harsh as those of the erring, the inexperienced, and the young.
There never was night that had no morn.
To-morrow is, ah, whose?
Unless a woman has a decided pleasure and facility in teaching, an honest knowledge of everything she professes to impart, a liking for children, and, above all, a strong moral sense of her responsibility towards them, for her to attempt to enroll herself in the scholastic order is absolute profanation.
Wedlock’s a lane where there is no turning.
