Quote

Up from the dark the moon begins to creep and now a pallid, haggard face lifts she above the water-line: thus from the deep a drowned body rises solemnly.

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
Lines
Creeps
Dark
Rises
Face
Lifts
Faces
Begins
Pallid
Water
Thus
Solemnly
Body
Moon
Haggard
Line
Creep
Deep
Drowned

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The ring of a false coin is not more recognizable than that of a rhyme setting forth a false sorrow.
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They fail, and they alone, who have not striven.
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What is slang in one age sometimes goes into the vocabulary of the purist in the next.
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Shakespeare is forever coming into our affairs -- putting in his oar, so to speak -- with some pat word or sentence.
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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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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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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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Gracious to all, to none subservient, Without offense he spoke the word he meant
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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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With the tears a Land hath shed. Their graves should ever be green.
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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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What is lovely never dies, but passes into other loveliness, Star-dust, or sea-foam, flower or winged air.
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The man who suspects his own tediousness is yet to be born.
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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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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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We weep when we are born, Not when we die!
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Books that have become classics - books that have had their day and now get more praise than perusal - always remind me of retired colonels and majors and captains who, having reached the age limit, find themselves retired on half pay.
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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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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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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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