But still when the mists of doubt prevail, And we lie becalmed by the shores of age, We hear from the misty troubled shore The voce of children gone before. Drawing the soul to its anchorage. — Bret Harte Copy Share Image
For the glory born of Goodness Never dies, And its flag is not half-masted In the skies. — Bret Harte Copy Share Image
“Nellie was a good girl, and I think had a sort of quiet respect for old Fagg's unobtrusiveness. But her fancy was already taken… — Bret Harte Copy Share Image
Perhaps there is no gift of nature that requires as little exertion on the part of the owner as personal beauty. I am not… — Bret Harte Copy Share Image
Howbeit, though no scholar, I am not one of those who misuse the English speech, and, being foolishly led by the hasty custom of… — Bret Harte Copy Share Image
“Tommy, you're a good little man, but you can't gamble worth a cent. Don't try it over again.' He then handed him his money… — Bret Harte Copy Share Image
“I've had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this spot,-- Lost on the plains in '50, drowned almost, and shot; But out… — Bret Harte Copy Share Image
The delicate thought, that cannot find expression, For ruder speech too fair, That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, And scatters on the air. — Bret Harte Copy Share Image
“There was, I think, a prevailing impression common to the provincial mind, that his misfortune was the result of the defective moral quality of… — Bret Harte Copy Share Image
Your voices break and falter in the darkness, Break, falter, and are still. — Bret Harte Copy Share Image
We begin to die as soon as we are born, and the end is linked to the beginning. — Bret Harte Copy Share Image
