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When friends are at your hearthside met, Sweet courtesy has done its most If you have made each guest forget That he himself is not the host.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich

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Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Age: 70 †
Born: 1836
Born: November 2
Died: 1907
Died: March 19
Editor
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Portsmouth
New Hampshire
Mets
Sweet
Friends
Forget
Guest
Done
Hospitality
Made
Courtesy
Guests
Host

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The ocean moans over dead men's bones.
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All the best sands of my life are somehow getting into the wrong end of the hourglass. If I could only reverse it! Were it in my power to do sowould I?
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Day is a snow-white Dove of heaven That from the East glad message brings. Night is a stealthy, evil Raven, Wrapped to the eyes in his black wings.
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With the tears a Land hath shed. Their graves should ever be green.
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What is lovely never dies, but passes into other loveliness, Star-dust, or sea-foam, flower or winged air.
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Come watch with me the shaft of fire that glows in yonder West the fair, frail palaces, The fading Alps and archipelagoes and great cloud continents of sunset-seas.
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To keep the heart unwrinkled, to be hopeful, kindly, cheerful, reverent that is to triumph over old age.
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The young girl in my story is to be as sensitive to praise as a prism is to light. Whenever anybody praises her she breaks into colors.
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No bird has ever uttered note That was not in some first bird's throat Since Eden's freshness and man's fall No rose has been original.
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My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings
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They fail, and they alone, who have not striven.
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It is the Lord's Day, and I do believe that cheerful hearts and faces are not unpleasant in His sight.
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Dialect tempered with slang is an admirable medium of communication between persons who have nothing to say and persons who would not care for anything properly said.
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Gracious to all, to none subservient, Without offense he spoke the word he meant
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The man who suspects his own tediousness is yet to be born.
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What is a day to an immortal soul! A breath, no more.
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But I, in the chilling twilight stand and wait At the portcullis, at thy castle gate, Longing to see the charmed door of dreams Turn on its noiseless hinges, delicate sleep!
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This one sits shivering in Fortune's smile, taking his joy with bated, doubtful breath. This other, gnawed by hunger, all the while laughs in the teeth of Death.
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October turned my maple's leaves to gold The most are gone now here and there one lingers: Soon these will slip from the twigs' weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.
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How fugitive and brief is mortal life between the budding and the falling leaf.
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