Dinah Craik

Drink, my jolly lads, drink with discerning, Wedlock's a lane where there is no turning; Never was owl more blind than a lover, Drink and be merry, lads, half seas over.

And all day long, so close and near, As in a mystic dream I hear Their gentle accents kind and dear — The old familiar voices. They have no sound that I can reach — But silence sweeter is than speech.

Down in the deep, up in the sky, I see them always, far or nigh, And I shall see them till I die — The old familiar faces.

O, my son's my son till he gets him a wife, But my daughter's my daughter all her life.

There never was night that had no morn.

O Thou that openest, and no man shuts; That shut'st, and no man opens — Thee we wait!

The irrevocable Hand That opes the year's fair gate, doth ope and shut The portals of our earthly destinies; We walk through blindfold, and the noiseless doors Close after us, for ever.

Sweet April-time — O cruel April-time! Year after year returning, with a brow Of promise, and red lips with longing paled, And backward-hidden hands that clutch the joys Of vanished springs, like flowers.

Nothing but a speck we seem In the waste of waters round, Floating, floating like a dream, — Outward bound.

All that we know of Thee, or knowing not Love only, waiting till the perfect time When we shall know even as we are known;— O Thou Child Jesus, Thou dost seem to say By the soft silence of these heavenly eyes (That rose out of the depths …

Wist ye not That I must be about my Father's business?

Meek — as the meek that shall inherit earth, Pure — as the pure in heart that shall see God.

God rest ye, little children; let nothing you afright, For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born this happy night; Along the hills of Galilee the white flocks sleeping lay, When Christ, the child of Nazareth, was born on Christmas day.

One cannot make oneself, but one can sometimes help a little in the making of somebody else.

It seemed as if she had given these treasures and left him alone — to use them or lose them, apply them or misapply them, according to his own choice. That is all we can do with children, when they grow into big children, old enough to …

I have nothing to say against uncles in general. They are usually very excellent people, and very convenient to little boys and girls.

To accept the inevitable, neither to struggle against it nor murmur at it, simply to bear it — this is the great lesson of life.

Those whose own light is quenched are often the light-bringers.

A parent, unlike a poet, is not born, he is made.

[T]here is nothing so absolute as the tyranny of weakness.

Two hands upon the breast, And labour’s done; Two pale feet crossed in rest, The race is won.

To-morrow is — ah, whose?

Mine to the core of the heart, my beauty! Mine, all mine, and for love, not duty: Love given willingly, full and free, Love for love's sake — as mine to thee. Duty's a slave that keeps the keys, But Love, the master, goes in and out

Forgotten? No, we never do forget: We let the years go: wash them clean with tears, Leave them to bleach, out in the open day, Or lock them careful by, like dead friends' clothes, Till we shall dare unfold them without pain— But we forget …