After all, let a man take what pains he may to hush it down, a human soul is an awful ghostly, unquiet possession, for a bad man to have. Who knows the metes and bounds of it? Who knows all it's awful perhapses, -those shudderings and temblings, which it can no more live down than it can outlive its own eternity! What a fool is he who locks his door to keep out spirits, who has in his own bosom a spirit he dares not meet alone, -whose voice, smothered far down, and piled over with mountains of earthiness, is yet like the forewarning trumpet of doom!
Harriet Beecher StoweO, with what freshness, what solemnity and beauty, is each new day born; as if to say to insensate man, "Behold! thou hast one more chance! Strive for immortal glory!
Harriet Beecher StoweMots clés inspiration glory new-day
I did not write it. (Uncle Tom's Cabin) God wrote it. I merely did his dictation.
Harriet Beecher StoweWe never know how we love til we try to unlove!
Harriet Beecher StoweLove is very beautiful, but very, very sad.
Harriet Beecher StoweWhen winds are raging o'er the upper ocean,
And billows wild contend with angry roar,
'Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion,
That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.
Far, far beneath, the noise of tempest dieth,
And silver waves chime ever peacefully,
And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,
Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea.
So to the heart that knows Thy love, O Purest,
There is a temple sacred evermore,
And all the babble of life's angry voices
Dies in hushed silence at its peaceful door.
Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth,
And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully,
And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,
Disturbs the soul that dwells, O Lord, in Thee.
You've always stood it out again' me: now, I'll conquer ye, or kill ye!—one or t' other. I'll count every drop of blood there is in you, and take 'em, one by one, till ye give up!"
Tom looked up to his master, and answered, "Mas'r, if you was sick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I'd give ye my heart's blood; and, if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body would save your precious soul, I'd give 'em freely, as the Lord gave his for me. O, Mas'r! don't bring this great sin on your soul! It will hurt you more than 't will me! Do the worst you can, my troubles'll be over soon; but, if ye don't repent, yours won't never end!
There's a way you political folks have of coming round and round a plain right thing
Harriet Beecher StoweMots clés political-humor
What man has nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear.
Harriet Beecher StoweMots clés deep-thoughts
لم يكن يفهم من كلمة "لاجئ" أكثر من أنها تتألف من أربعة حروف، أو أنها صورة بشعة كما تنشرها الصحف: رجل يحمل عصاه وجرابه ويتيه على وجهه، أمّا ما تحمله هذه الكلمة من بؤس حقيقي، أمّا العين البشرية الصارخة بالابتهال، أمّا اليد البشرية الواهنة المرتجفة،أمّا نداء الاحتضار اليائس الذي ينفذ إلى شغاف القلب فشيء لم يعرفه السيد من قبل.
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