For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.
The best of a book is not the thought which it contains, but the thought which it suggests; just as the charm of music dwells not in the tones but in the echoes of our hearts.
Somehow, not only for Christmas, But all the long year through, The joy that you give to others, Is the joy that comes back to you. And the more you spend in blessing, The poor and lonely and sad, The more of your heart's possessing, Returns to you glad.
Autumn, in his leafless bowers, is waiting for the winter's snow.
The smile of God is victory.
Tradition wears a snowy beard.
To be saved is only this,--salvation from our own selfishness.
Beauty seen is never lost, God's colors all are fast.
The tints of autumn...a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.