And Love, no matter how abused and maltreated, is a very patient god, and even while suffering from undeserved wounds, still works on, doing magical things.
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Thelma
Marie Corelli 1 May 1855 – 21 April 1924) was a British novelist. She enjoyed a period of great literary success from the publication of her first novel in 1886 until World War I. Corelli's novels sold more copies than the combined sales of popular contem
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Love that keeps all the choir of lives in chime — Love that is blood within the veins of time.
Still Love remained — a Love, chastened and sad, with drooping wings and somewhat doubting smile — yet it was Love . . .
Is Love alone worth living for — worth dying for? Is it the only satisfying good we can grasp at among the shifting shadows of our brief existence? In its various phases and different workings, is it, after all, the brightest radiance known in the struggling darkness of our lives?
Old as I am, I long for youth — the everlasting youth of which the strength and savour fails not. I have lived long enough to know the sameness of this world — though there is much therein to please the heart and eye of a man — but with that roving restlessness that was born within me, I desire to s…
But men are all alike — as long as they've got what they want, they never think of anybody else.
This sounds incongruous — yet it may be taken for granted that those who profess to follow Christianity and yet make of God a being malicious, revengeful, and of more evil attributes that they possess themselves — are as barbarous, as unenlightened, as hopelessly sunken in slavish ignorance as the l…
But I can't believe that God, who is so good, is going to everlastingly burn anybody. He couldn't, you know! It would hurt Him so much to see poor creatures writhing about in flames for ever — we would not be able to bear it, and I'm quite sure it would make Him miserable even in heaven. Because He…
I don't understand people who are so much afraid of the Lord. They must have done something wrong. If you always do your best, and try to be good, you needn't fear anything. At least, that's my opinion.
There seems to be nothing that is true — all is false and unreal — I cannot understand!
I have found that — no one in the world pities you! But perhaps you do not know the world — ah! it is very hard and cold; all the people hide their feelings and pretend to be what they are not. It is difficult to live so, and I am tired!
I have suffered in thine absence — the sufferings of the body that, being yet strong in spite of age, is reluctant to take leave of life. But it is past! I am as one numbed with everlasting frost — and now I feel no pain. And my mind is like a bird that poises for a while over past and present, ere…
Love! Love is strong as death — jealousy is cruel as the grave — the coals thereof are coals of fire, which have a most vehement flame!
I am but a sorry consoler, holding, as I do, that death is the chief blessing , and in no way to be regretted at any time. Moreover, when the body grows too weak to support the soul, 't is as well to escape from it with what speed we may.
And it's as well, to do it while I'm alive to see to it myself — for I've often observed that if you leave your world's gear to the poor when you're dead, just for the good reason that you can't take it to the grave with you — it'll melt in a wonderful way through the hands of the 'secretaries' and…
Riches are a snare, a snare and a decoy to both soul and body!
Now, when for the third time his fairy castle of perfect peace and pleasure seemed shaken to its foundations, when he again realized the uncertainty of life or death, he felt bewildered and wretched.
What matters the death of one man in a million? Unless, indeed, it be a man whose life, like a torch uplifted in darkness, has enlightened and cheered the world — but the death of a mere fashionable 'swell', whose chief talent has been a trick of lying gracefully — who cares for such a one? Society…
Our nearest and dearest are often those who are most in the dark respecting our private and personal sufferings — we do not wish to trouble them — and they prefer to think that everything is right with us, even though the veriest stranger, meeting us casually, clearly beholds the shadow of the dark…
The tenderest relations are often the most delicate and subtle, and 'trifles light as air' may scatter and utterly destroy the sensitive gossamer threads extending between one heart and another, as easily as a child's passing foot destroys the spider's web woven on the dewy grass in the early mornin…