Quotes by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
The buttercups across the field
Made sunshine rifts of splendor.
We never know through what Divine mysteries of compensation the great Father of the universe may be carrying out His sublime plan; but those three
Oh, if I could live four weeks longer! but no matter, no matter!
Two hands upon the breast,
And labour’s done;
Two pale feet crossed in rest,
The race is won.
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.

Awakener, come!
Fiing wide the gate of an eternal year,
The April of that glad new heavens and earth
Which shall grow out of these, as spring-tide grows
Slow out of winter's breast.
Let Thy wide hand
Gather us all — with none left out (O God!
Leave Thou out none!) from the east and from the west.
Loose Thou our burdens: heal our sicknesses;
Give us one heart, one tongue, one faith, one love.
In Thy great Oneness made complete and strong —
To do Thy work throughout the happy world —
Thy world, All-merciful, Thy perfect world.
Oh my son's my son till he gets a wife,
But my daughter's my daughter all her life.
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
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.

Pause, my soul,
On these strange words — ''for ever'' — whose large sound
Breaks flood-like, drowning all the petty noise
Our human moans make on the shores of Time.
O Thou that openest, and no man shuts;
That shut'st, and no man opens — Thee we wait!

When faith and hope fail, as they do sometimes, we must try charity, which is love in action. We must speculate no more on our duty, but simply do it. When we have done it, however blindly, perhaps Heaven will show us why.
Immortality alone could teach this mortal how to die.
Autumn to winter, winter into spring,
Spring into summer, summer into fall, —
So rolls the changing year, and so we change;
Motion so
There never was night that had no morn.
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
To-morrow is, ah, whose?
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.
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik's Biography
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