Mary Howitt Quotes

He is happiest who hath power to gather wisdom from a flower.

Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers; Coming ere the spring time, To tell of sunny hours. When the trees are leafless; When the fields are bare; Buttercups and daisies Spring up here and there.

For visions come not to polluted eyes.

To ask me is in vain; For who goes up your winding stair Can ne'er come down again.

Yes, in the poor man's garden grow Far more than herbs and flowers - Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, And Joy for weary hours.

The wild sea roars and lashes the granite cliffs below,And round the misty islets the loud strong tempests blow.

Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it. I know the realms where people say The flowers have not their fellow; I know where they shine out like suns, The crimson and the yellow. I know where ladies live enchained In luxury's silken fetters, And flowers as bright as glittering gems Are used for written letters. But ne'er was flower so fair as this, In modern days or olden; It groweth on its nodding stem Like to a garland golden.

God sends children for another purpose than merely to keep up the race - to enlarge our hearts; and to make us unselfish and full of kindly sympathies and affection; to give our shoulds higher aims; to call out all our faculties to extended enterprise and exertion and to bring round our firesides bright faces, happy smiles, and loving, tender hearts. My soul blesses the great Father, every day, that he has gladdened the earth with little children

Will you walk into my parlour? Said the spider to a fly: '"Tis the prettiest little parlour That ever you did spy.

God sends children for another purpose than merely to keep up the race -- to enlarge our hearts, to make us unselfish, and full of kindly sympathies and affections.

True delicacy, that most beautiful heart-leaf of humanity, exhibits itself most significantly in little things.

Then take me on your knee, mother; And listen, mother of mine. A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine.

When on the breath of Autumn's breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought, The fair, white thistle-down; O, then what joy to walk at will, Upon the golden harvest-hill!

Heart's ease! one could look for half a day Upon this flower, and shape in fancy out Full twenty different tales of love and sorrow, That gave this gentle name.

Old England is our home, and Englishmen are we; Our tongue is known in every clime, our flag in every sea.

I know he's coming by this sign, That baby's almost wild; See how he laughs and crows and starts — Heaven, bless the merry child! He's father's self in face and limb, And father's heart is strong in him. Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands.

Roads are wet where'er one wendeth, And with rain the thistle bendeth, And the brook cries like a child! Not a rainbow shines to cheer us; Ah! the sun comes never near us, And the heavens look dark and wile.