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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"His imagination seemed still to exhaust itself in running, before it tried to leap the ditch. While he mused, the fire burned in other brains. Other hands wrote the books he dreamed about. He freely used his good ideas in conversation, and in letters; and they were straightway wrought into the texture of other men's books, and so lost to him for ever."

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"His imagination seemed still to exhaust itself in running, before it tried to leap the ditch. While he mused, the fire burned in other brains. Other hands wrote the books he dreamed about. He freely used his good ideas in conversation, and in letters; and they were straightway wrought into the texture of other men's books, and so lost to him for ever."

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"Whenever we lose time, we are actually losing our life."

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"We are discouraged, when we fail to nourish the soul with its spiritual food."

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"And, beginning to grind his teeth again, Pyotr Petrovich admitted that he'd been a fool--but only to himself, of course."

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"Many people, who should have been rejoicing for what they've achieved, are rather regretting just because of one reason; they looked at what someone else was doing. Comparison eliminates contentment and then kills inner joy!"

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"I wasn't able to be that person for you, and I did a terrible thing. I feel awful about it. But there was something wrong between us from the start, as if we'd done the buttons up wrong."

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"The only thing you have to show for a wasted or spent time is that you just realize that you are getting older."

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"To waste time is to become wasted."

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"Those who waste time eventually become wasted."

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"Ah me!" said he, "what might have been is not what is!"

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"There was a little girl And she had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead When she was good she was very very good When she was bad she was horrid."
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"The night shall be filled with music And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents like the Arabs And as silently steal away."
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"Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating. Funeral marches to the grave."
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"As Unto the bow the the cord is ,So unto the man is woman;Though she bends him, she obeys him,Though she draws him , yet she follows:Useless each without the other."
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"There is no grief like the grief that does not speak."
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