Day is the Child of Time, And Day must cease to be: But Night is without a sire, And cannot expire, One with Eternity. — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share Image
There is no death. The thing that we call death Is but another, sadder name for life. — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
A voice of greeting from the wind was sent; The mists enfolded me with soft white arms; The birds did sing to lap me… — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
There is no hope the future will but turn the old sand in the falling glass of time. — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
Once, when the days were ages, And the old Earth was young, The high gods and the sages From Nature's golden pages Her open… — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
There is no death-the thing that we call death Is but another, sadder name for life, Which is itself an insufficient name, Faint recognition… — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
Day is the Child of Time, And Day must cease to be: But Night is without a sire, And cannot expire, One with Eternity. — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
There are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from… — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
Children are the keys of Paradise.They alone are good and wise, Because their thoughts, their very lives are prayer. — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
With no companion but the constant Muse, Who sought me when I needed her ah, when Did I not need her, solitary else? — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
We have two lives about us,Two worlds in which we dwell,Within us and without us,Alternate Heaven and Hell:-Without, the somber Real,Within, our hearts of… — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
Pale in her fading bowers the Summer stands, Like a new Niobe with claspèd hands, Silent above the flowers, her children lost, Slain by… — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
Heaven is not gone, but we are blind with tears, Groping our way along the downward slope of Years! — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
Day and night my thoughts incline To the blandishments of wine, Jars were made to drain, I think; Wine, I know, was made to… — Richard Henry Stoddard Copy Share
