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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.

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
Smile
Laughs
Laughing
Sits
Taking
Optimism
Joy
Breath
Death
Breaths
Teeth
Gnawed
Hunger
Shivering
Fortune
Doubtful

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Gracious to all, to none subservient, Without offense he spoke the word he meant
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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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Imagine all human beings swept off the face of the earth, excepting one man. Imagine this man in some vast city, New York or London. Imagine him on the third or fourth day of his solitude sitting in a house and hearing a ring at the door-bell!
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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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The possession of unlimited power will make a despot of almost any man. There is a possible Nero in the gentlest human creature that walks.
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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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So I sit there kicked my heels, thinking about New Orleans, and watching a morbid blue-bottle fly attempt to commit suicide by butting his head against the windowpane.
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I beg you come tonight and dine A welcome waits you and sound wine The Roederer chilly to a charm As Juno's breasts the claret warm.
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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.
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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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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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The man who suspects his own tediousness is yet to be born.
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Between the reputation of the author living and the reputation of the same author dead there is ever a wide discrepancy.
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How fugitive and brief is mortal life between the budding and the falling leaf.
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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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My father invested his money so securely in the banking business that he was never able to get any of it out again.
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The ocean moans over dead men's bones.
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O harp of life, so speedily unstrung!
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We weep when we are born, Not when we die!
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My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings
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