Frances Sargent Osgood

With strength to meet sorrow, and faith to endure

— Frances Sargent Osgood

No grief so soft, no pain so sweet, as love's delicious melancholy.

— Frances Sargent Osgood

Love is the greatest of educators.

— Frances Sargent Osgood

Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow; work with a stout heart and resolute will.

— 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.

— Frances Sargent Osgood

To hallow'd duty Here with a loyal and heroic heart, Bind we our lives.

— Frances Sargent Osgood

Labor! all labor is noble and holy! Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

— Frances Sargent Osgood

Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth.

— 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.

— 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…

— Frances Sargent Osgood

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us; from all the petty vexations that meet us; from the sin-promptings that assail…

— 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,…

— Frances Sargent Osgood

And wheresoever, in his rich creation, Sweet music breathes--in wave, or bird, or soul-- 'Tis but the faint and far reverberation Of…

— 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,…

— 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.

— 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…

— Frances Sargent Osgood

Labor is rest--from the sorrow that greet us; Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat…

— Frances Sargent Osgood