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Quotes by T. B. Aldrich
Or light or dark, or short or tall, She sets a springe to snare them all: All's one to her-above her fan She'd make sweet eyes at Caliban.— filed under Coquetry
Day is a snow-white Dove of heaven That from the East glad message brings: Night is a stealthy, evil Raven, Wrapt to the eyes in his black wings.— filed under Day
When to soft Sleep we give ourselves away, And in a dream as in a fairy bark Drift on and on through the enchanted dark To purple daybreak-little thought we pay To that sweet bitter world we know by day.— filed under Dreams
The poor man will praise it so hath he good cause, That all the year eats neither partridge nor quail, But sets up his rest and makes up his feast, With a crust of brown bread and a pot of good ale. An old English Song, from "An Antidote Against Melancholy." (1661.) When the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan, Even before he gets so far As the place where the clustered palm-trees are, At the last of the thirty palace-gates, The pet of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, Orders a feast in his favorite room- Glittering square of colored ice, Sweetened with syrup, tinctured with spice, Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates, Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces, Limes and citrons and apricots, And wines that are known to Eastern princes.— filed under Eating
For the poplars showed The white of their leaves, the amber grain Shrunk in the wind-and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain. C.— filed under Electricity
In her eyes a thought Grew sweeter and sweeter, deepening like the dawn, A mystical forewarning.— filed under Eyes
Lily. Lilium. 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.— filed under Flowers-Kingcup
May. Hebe's here, May is here! The air is fresh and sunny; And the miser-bees are busy Hoarding golden honey.— filed under Months-May
October. October turned my maple's leaves to gold; The most are gone now; here and there one lingers; Soon these will slip from out the twig's weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.— filed under Months-October
November. I. December. Only the sea intoning, Only the wainscot-mouse, Only the wild wind moaning Over the lonely house.— filed under Months-November
Day is a snow-white Dove of heaven. That from the East glad message brings : Night is a stealthy, evil Raven, Wrapt to the eyes in his black wings.— filed under Night
Till then, good-night! You wish the time were now? And I. You do not blush to wish it so? You would have blush'd yourself to death To own so much a year ago. What! both these snowy hands? ah, then I'll have to say, Good-night again.— filed under Parting
When I behold what pleasure is pursuit, What life, what glorious eagerness it is, Then mark how full possession falls from this, How fairer seems the blossom than the fruit,- I am perplext, and often stricken mute, Wondering which attained the higher bliss, The winged insect, or the chrysalis It thrust aside with unreluctant foot.— filed under Possession
We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed The white of their leaves, the amber grain Shrunk in the wind, and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.— filed under Rain
Winter. These Winter nights against my window-pane Nature with busy pencil draws designs Of ferns and blossoms and fine spray of pines, Oak-leaf and acorn and fantastic vines, Which she will make when summer comes again- Quaint arabesques in argent, flat and cold, Like curious Chinese etchings.— filed under Sows
What probing deep Has ever solved the mystery of sleep?— filed under Sleep
Come watch with me the shaft of fire that glows In yonder West: the fair, frail palaces, The fading Alps and archipelagoes, And great cloud-continents of sunset-seas.— filed under Sunset