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How the sting of poverty, or small means, is gone when one keeps house for one's own comfort and not for the comfort of one's neighbors.

Dinah Maria Murlock Craik

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Dinah Maria Murlock Craik
Mean
Neighbor
Keeps
Comfort
Poverty
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With faces like dead lovers who died true.
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As we sail through life towards death, Bound unto the same port--heaven,-- Friend, what years could us divide?
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Keep what is worth keeping and with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.
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God rest ye, little children let nothing you afright, For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born this happy night Along the hills of Galilee the white blocks sleeping lay, When Christ, the child of Nazareth, was born on Christmas day.
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O the green things growing, the green things growing, The faint sweet smell of the green things growing! I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve, Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing.
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The irrevocable Hand That opes the year's fair gate, doth ope and shut The portals of our earthly destinies We walk through blindfold, and the noiseless doors Close after us, for ever.
Dinah Maria Murlock Craik
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There can be - there ought to be - no medium course a love-affair is either sober earnest or contemptible folly, if not wickedness: to gossip about it is, in the first instance, intrusive, unkind, or dangerous in the second, simply silly.
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Every man for himself, and the Devil take the hindmost.
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according to the old joke, married people are often like little boys bathing, who cry with chattering teeth to the boys on the shore, 'Do come in, it's so warm' - it is not always warm.
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It is the Christmas time: And up and down 'twixt heaven and earth, In glorious grief and solemn mirth, The shining angels climb.
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O how beautiful is morning! How the sunbeams strike the daisies And the kingcups fill the meadow Like a golden-shielded army Marching to the uplands fair.
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A secret at home is like rocks under tide.
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When the ship is going down we trouble ourselves little enough about the style of the cabin furniture.
Dinah Maria Murlock Craik
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If I had to write a book, I could not find anything in the world worth saying - as is indeed the case with many voluminous authors.
Dinah Maria Murlock Craik
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What small account The All-living seems to take of this thin flame Which we call life. He sends a moment's blast Out of war's nostrils, and a myriad Of these our puny tapers are blown out Forever.
Dinah Maria Murlock Craik
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Queens you must always be: queens to your lovers queens to your husbands and your sons, queens of higher mystery to the world beyond. . . . But alas, you are too often idle and careless queens, grasping at majesty in the least things, while you abdicate it in the greatest.
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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.
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O, the mulberry-tree is of trees the queen! Bare long after the rest are green But as time steals onwards, while none perceives Slowly she clothes herself with leaves.
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Wedlock's a lane where there is no turning.
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Young Dandelion On a hedge-side Said young Dandelion Who'll be my bride? Said young Dandelion With a sweet air, I have my eye on Miss Daisy fair.
Dinah Maria Murlock Craik