I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.
From Helen Hunt Jackson
If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.
On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They call'd him dead; And made his eldest son, one day, Slave in his father's stead.
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
When Time is spent, Eternity begins.
Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.
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