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I like not lady-slippers, Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Nor yet the flaky roses, Red or white as snow I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow.

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
Grow
Eastern
Slippers
Grows
Lady
Peas
White
Snow
Blossoms
Like
Red
Lilies
Heavy
Tiger
Rose
Roses
Garden
Tigers
Sweet
Gorgeous
Flaky

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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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O harp of life, so speedily unstrung!
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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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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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Gracious to all, to none subservient, Without offense he spoke the word he meant
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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 ring of a false coin is not more recognizable than that of a rhyme setting forth a false sorrow.
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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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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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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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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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That was indeed to live -- at one bold swoop to wrest from darkling death the best that death to life can give.
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Black Tragedy lets slip her grim disguise and shows you laughing lips and roguish eyes but when, unmasked, gay Comedy appears, how wan her cheeks are, and what heavy tears!
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They fail, and they alone, who have not striven.
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My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings
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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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Shakespeare is forever coming into our affairs -- putting in his oar, so to speak -- with some pat word or sentence.
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