Louise Imogen Guiney (January 17, 1861 – November 2, 1920) was an American poet, essayist and editor, born in Roxbury, Massachusetts.
Life is a breathing-space between two eternities, a holiday with appalling realities behind and before.
I am not in the least given to any violent interest in womankind, however, such as has addled the country's brains of late. Give me a manandwoman world: 'tis good enough!
Very few can be trusted with an education.
[Death:] The one inexorable thing!
Character demonstrates itself in trifles.
Idleness, simon-pure, from which all manner of good springs like seed from a fallow soil, is sure to be misnamed and misconstrued.
A guest should be permitted to graze, as it were, in the pastures of his host's kindness, left even to his own devices, like a rational being, and handsomely neglected.
The hand betrays the heart.
Family traits, like murder, will out. Nature has but so many molds.
With fatal, fatal Love a girlhood goes.
High above hate I dwell, O storms! farewell.
Youth is slipping, dripping, pearl on pearl, away.
Life is legal tender, and individual character stamps its value. We are from a thousand mints, and all genuine. Despite our infinitely diverse appraisements, we make change for one another. So many ideals planted are worth the great gold of Socrates; so many impious laws broken are worth John Brown.
Quotations (such as have point and lack triteness) from the great old authors are an act of reverence on the part of the quoter, and a blessing to a public grown superficial and external.
Youth, ah, Youth! all men's desire and sorrow.
No pleasure or success in life quite meets the capacity of our hearts. We take in our good things with enthusiasm, and think ourselves happy and satisfied; but afterward, when the froth and foam have subsided, we discover that the goblet is not more than half-filled with the golden liquid that was poured into it.
Children are born optimists and we slowly educate them out of their heresy
My own passion, all my life, has been non-collecting.
The fears of what may come to pass, I cast them all away, Among the clover scented grass, Among the new-mown hay.