Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think.
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak
Beside the ungathered rice he lay. His sickle in his hand.
A torn jacket is soon mended, but hard words bruise the heart of a child
And the song, from beginning to end, I found in the heart of a friend
Hope has as many lives as a cat or a king
The mind of the scholar, if he would leave it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds
The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service
The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well, and doing well whatever you do.
The rapture of pursuing is the prize the vanquished gain.
Perseverance is a great element of success. If you only knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake somebody.
Sometimes we may learn more from a man's errors, than from his virtues.
Well has it been said that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak.
If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we would find in each person's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
Into each life some rain must fall, some days be dark and dreary.
In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer.
The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well, and doing well whatever you do without thought of fame. If it comes at all it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after.
All are architects of fate, working in these walls of time.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting
The bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow is our destined way, but to act that each tomorrow may find us further than today.
Under the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
Trouble is the next best thing to enjoyment. There is no fate in the world so horrible as to have no share in either its joys or sorrows.
No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own
As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him, yet she follows Useless each without the other