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How like a mounting devil in the heart rules the unreined ambition.

Nathaniel Parker Willis

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Nathaniel Parker Willis
Age: 61 †
Born: 1806
Born: January 20
Died: 1867
Died: January 20
Author
Journalist
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Portland
Maine
Nathanael Parker Willis
Mounting
Ambition
Rules
Devil
Heart
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The children of the poor are so apt to look as if the rich would have been over-blest with such! Alas for the angel capabilities, interrupted so soon with care, and with after life so sadly unfulfilled.
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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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It is godlike to unloose the spirit, and forget yourself in thought.
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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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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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The perfect world, by Adam trod, Was the first temple--built by God-- His fiat laid the corner stone, And heaved its pillars, one by one.
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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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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 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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A lamp is lit in woman's eye that souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by.
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Nature has thrown a veil of modest beauty over maidenhood and moss-roses.
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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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The taste forever refines in the study of women.
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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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Maturity is most rapid in the low latitudes, where pineapples and women most do thrive.
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Youth is beautiful its friendship is precious the intercourse with it is a purifying release from the worn and stained harness of older life.
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Vulgarity is more obvious in satin than in homespun.
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There is to me a daintiness about early flowers that touches me like poetry. They blow out with such a simple loveliness among the common herbs of pastures, and breathe their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts whose beatings are too gentle for the world.
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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 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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