Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtasked
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.Life is a fatal complaint, and an eminently contagious one.
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The real religion of the world comes from women much more than from men--from mothers most of all, who carry the key of our souls in their bosoms.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtasked. Good mental machinery ought to break its own wheels and levers, if anything is thrust among them suddenly which tends to stop them or reverse their motion. A weak mind does not accumulate force enough to hurt itself; stupidity often saves a man from going mad.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.Mots clés life insanity sanity
Why can’t somebody give us a list of things everybody thinks and nobody says, and another list of the things that everybody says but nobody thinks?
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.Even a dog knows the difference between being kicked and being stumbled over.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.It's faith in something and enthusiasm for something that makes a life worth living.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.Mots clés life faith enthusiasm
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It is the province of knowledge to speak and it is the privilege of wisdom to listen.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.Take your needle, my child, and work at your pattern; it will come out a
rose by and by. Life is like that - one stitch at a time taken patiently
and the pattern will come out all right like the embroidery.
The Last Leaf
I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow;
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
Mots clés poem the-last-leaf
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