Page:Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922).djvu/568

 530 MORNING-GLORY MOTH

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = And the fresh air of incense-breathing morn Shall wooingly embrace it. Wordsworth—Ecclesiastical Sonnets. XL. | seealso = (See also {{sc|Gray) MORNING-GLORY IpomoeaII Wondrous interlacement! Holding fast to threads by green and suky rings, With the dawn it spreads its white and purple Generous in its bloom, and sheltering while it Sturdy morning-glory. | author = Helen Hunt Jackson | work = Morning-Glory. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 530 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = The morning-glory's blossoming Will soonbe coming round We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground. Maria White LowELii—Morning-Glory. MORTALITY | seealso = (See also {{sc|Death; "O Charidas, what of the underworld?" "Great darkness." "And what of the resurrection?" "A lie." "And Pluto?" "A fable; we perish utterly." Callimachus. Trans, by Macnail in Select Epigrams from the Greek Anthology. See also Callimachus—Epigrams. XIV. L. 3. Antholagia Palatina. VII. 524. | author =  | work =  | place =  | note =  | topic =  | page = 530 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = To smell to a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the body; no less are thoughts of mortality cordial to the soul. Fuller—Holy and Profane States. Bk. IV. The Court Lady. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 530 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = That flesh is but the glasse, which holds the dust That measures all our time; which also shall Be crumbled into dust. | author = Herbert | work = The Temple. Church Monuments. Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:— We are as they; Like them we fade away As doth a leaf. Christina G. Rossetti—Consider. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 530 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = Hier ist die Stelle wo ich sterblich bin. This is the spot where I am mortal. Schiller—Don Carlos. I. 6. 67. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 530 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = The immortal could we cease to contemplate, The mortal part suggests its every trait. God laid His fingers on the ivories Of her pure members as on smoothed keys, And there out-breathed her spirit's harmonies. Francis Thompson—Her Portrait. St. 7. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 530 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = At thirty, man suspects himself a fool, Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; At fifty, chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve, In all the magnanimity of thought; Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. And why? because he thinks himself immortal, All men think all men mortal but themselves. Young—Night Thoughts. Night I. L. 417. MOSQUITO Fair insect! that, with threadlike legs spread out, And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing, Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about, In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, And tell how little our large veins would bleed, Would we but yield them to thy bitter need. Bryant—To a Mosquito. MOTH What gained we, little moth? Thy ashes, Thy one brief parting pang may show: And withering thoughts for soul that dashes. From deep to deep, are but a death moir slow. Carlyle—Tragedy of the Night Moth. St. 14. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 530 }}