By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer’s best of weather And autumn’s best of cheer.

There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.

O month when they who love must love and wed.

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.

But undying memories stood like sentinels in her breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each other, fell on her ear, her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice saying, “Majella!

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.

But all lost things are in the angels’ keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years of Heaven with all earth’s little pain Make Good Together there we can...

Gazing around, looking up at the lofty pinnacles above, which seemed to pierce the sky, looking down upon the world,–it seemed the whole world, so limitless it stretched away at her feet,–feeling that infinite unspeakable...

When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.

There cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its own range of circumstance and connection, as the greater majority of human beings are in the bosoms...

We have flattered ourselves by inventing proverbs of comparison in matter of blindness,–“blind as a bat,” for instance. It would be safe to say that there cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat,...

Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.

I shall be found with ‘Indians’ engraved on my brain when I am dead. A fire has been kindled within me, which will never go out.

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what’s in a name?

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

But great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.

Next time!” In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.

Will not the Senorita trust me?”Ramona smiled faintly through her tears. “Yes,” she said. “I will trust you. You are Alessandro, are you not?””Yes, Senorita,” he answered, greatly surprised, “I am Alessandro.

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

As soon as I began, it seemed impossible to write fast enough – I wrote faster than I would write a letter – two thousand to three thousand words in a morning, and I cannot...

Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.

Love has a tide!

When the baby dies, On every side Rose stranger’s voices, hard and harsh and loud. The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed That men’s eyes...

There had been no crises of incident, or marked movements of experience such as in Felipe’s imaginations of love were essential to the fulness of its growth. This is a common mistake on the part...

Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.

The goldenrod is yellow,The corn is turning brown…The trees in apple orchardsWith fruit are bending down.

When Time is spent, Eternity begins.

If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the Negro, I will be thankful.