Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us; from all the petty vexations that meet us; from the sin-promptings that assail us; from the world-sirens that lure us to ill
Did you ever hear Of the frolic fairies dear? They're a blessed little race, Peeping up in fancy's face, In the valley, on the hill, By the fountain … - Frances Sargent Osgood
Did you ever hear Of the frolic fairies dear? They're a blessed little race, Peeping up in fancy's face, In the valley, on the hill, By the fountain …
- Frances Sargent Osgood
Love is the greatest of educators. - Frances Sargent Osgood
Love is the greatest of educators.
An exile, ill in heart and frame,-- A wanderer, weary of the way;-- A stranger, without love's sweet claim On any heart, go where I may! - Frances Sargent Osgood
An exile, ill in heart and frame,-- A wanderer, weary of the way;-- A stranger, without love's sweet claim On any heart, go where I may!
Better confide and be deceiv'd, A thousand times, by treacherous foes, Than once accuse the innocent, Or let suspicion mar repose. - Frances Sargent Osgood
Better confide and be deceiv'd, A thousand times, by treacherous foes, Than once accuse the innocent, Or let suspicion mar repose.
He whom nature thus bereaves, Is ever fancy's favourite child; For thee enchanted dreams she weaves Of changeful beauty, bright and wild. - Frances Sargent Osgood
He whom nature thus bereaves, Is ever fancy's favourite child; For thee enchanted dreams she weaves Of changeful beauty, bright and wild.
Within the oyster's shell uncouth The purest pearl may hide, Trust me you'll find a heart of truth Within that rough outside. - Frances Sargent Osgood
Within the oyster's shell uncouth The purest pearl may hide, Trust me you'll find a heart of truth Within that rough outside.
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow; work with a stout heart and resolute will. - Frances Sargent Osgood
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow; work with a stout heart and resolute will.
Call me names, dearest! Call me thy bird That flies to thy breast at one cherishing word, That folds its wild wings there, ne'er dreaming of flight, … - Frances Sargent Osgood
Call me names, dearest! Call me thy bird That flies to thy breast at one cherishing word, That folds its wild wings there, ne'er dreaming of flight, …
And yet we check and chide The airy angels as they float about us, With rules of so-called wisdom, till they grow The same tame slaves to custom and … - Frances Sargent Osgood
And yet we check and chide The airy angels as they float about us, With rules of so-called wisdom, till they grow The same tame slaves to custom and …
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