Labor is rest--from the sorrow that greet us; Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, Rest from the world-sirens that hire us to ill. Work--and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;… — Frances Sargent Osgood Copy Share Image
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow; work with a stout heart and resolute will. — Frances Sargent Osgood Copy Share Image
And wheresoever, in his rich creation, Sweet music breathes--in wave, or bird, or soul-- 'Tis but the faint and far reverberation Of that great… — Frances Sargent Osgood Copy Share
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… — Frances Sargent Osgood Copy Share
To hallow'd duty Here with a loyal and heroic heart, Bind we our lives. — Frances Sargent Osgood Copy Share
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 Copy Share
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… — Frances Sargent Osgood Copy Share
Labor! all labor is noble and holy! Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. — Frances Sargent Osgood Copy Share
No grief so soft, no pain so sweet, as love's delicious melancholy. — Frances Sargent Osgood Copy Share
Labor is rest--from the sorrow that greet us; Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, Rest… — Frances Sargent Osgood Copy Share
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow; work with a stout heart and resolute will. — Frances Sargent Osgood Copy Share
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 Copy Share
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… — Frances Sargent Osgood Copy Share
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… — Frances Sargent Osgood Copy Share
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 Copy Share
