Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness.

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.

Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.

Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster - children into strength and athletic proportion.

Eloquence is the poetry of prose.

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.

Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.

The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.

Where hast thou wandered. gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?

The groves were God's first temples.

The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep tonight.

A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.

Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.

A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.

Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.

Loveliest of lovely things are they on earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.

The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.

Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?

Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.

Here the free spirit of mankind at length Throws its last fetters off and who shall place A limit to the giants unchained strength Or curb his swiftness in the forward race

Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?

The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

I hear the howl of the wind that brings the long drear storm on its heavy wings.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in the freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.

Being ill like this combines shock - this time I will die - with a pain and agony that are unfamiliar, that wrench me out of myself.

One of the things that has always motivated me to write is the desire to get it out and look at it in an objective way, so that it doesn't cause me any serious pain by staying inside.

I meditate a lot, but I am constantly in pain. I'm trying to live with this. You just have to accept it.

We may not commit a lesser Sin under pretence to avoid a greater, but we may, nay we ought to endure the greatest Pain and Grief rather than commit the least Sin.

The worst pain a man can suffer: to have insight into much and power over nothing.

From this bestial view that the human mind consists of only sense certainty, pleasure and pain, Locke developed an equally bestial theory of the nation. Man originally existed in a State of Nature of complete liberty.

Imitation is the sincerest form of pain.

The vocabulary of pleasure depends on the imagery of pain.

I don't like painting flowers in my music. I like painting guts and pain.

Lives have been altered in fundamental ways, and later, after they acquire a more complete understanding of what goals are actually attainable, many are left facing a lot of pain and frustration. And yet, there's no culture of complaint.

When the Negro cries with pain from his deep hurt and lays his petition for elemental justice before the nation, he is calling upon the American people to kindle about that crucible of race relationships the fires of American faith.

It is a curious sensation: the sort of pain that goes mercifully beyond our powers of feeling. When your heart is broken, your boats are burned: nothing matters any more. It is the end of happiness and the beginning of peace.

My focus is to forget the pain of life. Forget the pain, mock the pain, reduce it. And laugh.

This horror of pain is a rather low instinct and... if I think of human beings I've known and of my own life, such as it is, I can't recall any case of pain which didn't, on the whole, enrich life.

To give pain is the tyranny; to make happy, the true empire of beauty.

An artist, under pain of oblivion, must have confidence in himself, and listen only to his real master: Nature.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.

One word frees us of all the weight and pain in life. That word is love.