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Thomas Bailey Aldrich (November 11, 1836 – March 19, 1907) was a poet and novelist born in Portsmouth, USA.
Born: November 11th, 1836
Died: March 19th, 1907
Quotes: 14 sourced quotes total
|Words (count)||49||4 - 171|
|Search Results||19||10 - 50|
When friends are at your hearthside met, Sweet courtesy has done its most If you have made each guest forget That he himself is not the host.
What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an open-wood-fire? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple-wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and blue-birds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last Spring. In Summer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round.
If my best wines mislike thy taste, And my best service win thy frown, Then tarry not, I bid thee haste; There's many another Inn in town.
All the best sands of my life are somehow getting into the wrong end of the hourglass. If I could only reverse it! Were it in my power to do so, would I?
Here is woe, a self and not the mask of woe.
So precious life is! Even to the old The hours are as a miser’s coins!
The Unguarded Gates 
Aldrich, Thomas. "The Unguarded Gates." Literature for Composition. Ed. Sylvan Barnet, William Burto, William E. Cain. Boston: Perdue, 2014. 1113. Print.
That was indeed to live— At one bold swoop to wrest From darkling death the best That Death to Life can give!
Or light or dark, or short or tall, She sets a springe to snare them all: All's one to her—above her fan She'd make sweet eyes at Caliban.
Somewhere—in desolate wind-swept space— In Twilight-land—in No-man’s land— Two hurrying Shapes met face to face, And bade each other stand. “And who are you?” cried one, agape, Shuddering in the gloaming light. “I know not,” said the second Shape, “I only died last night.”
It was pleasant to me to get a letter from you the other day. Perhaps I should have found it pleasanter if I had been able to decipher it. I don't think that I mastered anything beyond the date (which I knew) and the signature (which I guessed at). There's a singular and a perpetual charm in a letter of yours; it never grows old, it never loses its novelty... Other letters are read and thrown away and forgotten, but yours are kept forever - unread. One of them will last a reasonable man a lifetime.
Wide open and unguarded stand our gates, Named of the four winds, North, South, East and West; Portals that lead to an enchanted land… Here, it is written, Toil shall have its wage And Honor honor, and the humblest man Stand level with the highest in the law. Of such a land have men in dungeons dreamed And with the vision brightening in their eyes Gone smiling to the fagot and the sword. O Liberty, white Goddess! is it well To leave the gates unguarded? On thy breast Fold Sorrow’s children, soothe the hurts of Fate, Lift the down-trodden, but with hand of steel Stay those who to thy sacred portals come To waste the gifts of Freedom.
Wide open and unguarded stand our gates, And through them press a wild, a motley throng— Men from the Volga and the Tartar steppes, Featureless figures of the Hoang-Ho, Malayan, Scythian, Teuton, Kelt, and Slav, Flying the Old World’s poverty and scorn; These bringing with them unknown gods and rites, Those tiger passions, here to stretch their claws. In street and alley what strange tongues are these, Accents of menace alien to our air, Voices that once the Tower of Babel knew! O, Liberty, white goddess, is it well To leave the gate unguarded? On thy breast Fold sorrow's children, soothe the hurts of fate, Lift the downtrodden, but with the hand of steel Stay those who to thy sacred portals come To waste the fight of freedom. Have a care Lest from thy brow the clustered stars be torn And trampled in the dust. For so of old The thronging Goth and Vandal trampled Rome, And where the temples of the Caesars stood The lean wolf unmolested made her lair.