Our yesterdays Are like a lonely and a ruined land Wherein a breeze of recollection sighs-- A fading land to which is no return. — Henry Abbey Copy Share Image
What do we plant when we plant a tree? A thousand things that we daily see, We plant the spire that out-towers the crag,… — Henry Abbey Copy Share Image
The end we know not; but we wander on, Down the regretful wilderness of time. — Henry Abbey Copy Share Image
What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the ship that will cross the sea, we plant the mast to carry… — Henry Abbey Copy Share Image
The noblest works of human art and pride show that their makers were not satisfied. — Henry Abbey Copy Share Image
The artist labors while he may, But finds at best too brief the day; And, tho' his works outlast the time And nation that… — Henry Abbey Copy Share Image
Though Duty's face is stern, her path is best: They sweetly sleep who die upon her breast. — Henry Abbey Copy Share Image
And once I knew a meditative rose That never raised its head from bowing down, Yet drew its inspiration from the stars. It bloomed… — Henry Abbey Copy Share Image
Behold the grapes and all the fruits that Autumn gives today, As robed in red and gold, she rules, the Empress of Decay! — Henry Abbey Copy Share Image
All governments, Books, customs, buildings, railways, ships, and all the stark realities that men have made, Are but imagination's utterances. — Henry Abbey Copy Share Image
