Dinah Craik Quotes

Those whose own light is quenched are often the light-bringers.

A parent, unlike a poet, is not born, he is made.

[T]here is nothing so absolute as the tyranny of weakness.

Two hands upon the breast, And labour’s done; Two pale feet crossed in rest, The race is won.

To-morrow is — ah, whose?

Mine to the core of the heart, my beauty! Mine, all mine, and for love, not duty: Love given willingly, full and free, Love for love's sake — as mine to thee. Duty's a slave that keeps the keys, But Love, the master, goes in and out Of his goodly chambers with song and shout, Just as he please — just as he please.

Forgotten? No, we never do forget: We let the years go: wash them clean with tears, Leave them to bleach, out in the open day, Or lock them careful by, like dead friends' clothes, Till we shall dare unfold them without pai n— But we forget not, never can forget.

Immortality
Alone could teach this mortal how to die.

The buttercups across the field Made sunshine rifts of splendour.

Lo! all life this truth declares! Laborare est orare; And the whole earth rings with prayers.

Autumn to winter — winter into spring — Spring into summer — summer into fall — Thus rolls the changing year, and thus we change; Motion so swift we know not that we move.

Thus ended our little talk: yet it left a pleasant impression. True, the subject was strange enough; my sisters might have been shocked at it; and at my freedom in asking and giving opinions. But oh! the blessing it is to have a friend to whom one can speak fearlessly on any subject; with whom one's deepest as well as one's most foolish thoughts come out simply and safely. Oh, the comfort — the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person — having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away. Somebody must have done a good deal of the winnowing business this afternoon; for in the course of it I gave him as much nonsense as any reasonable man could stand …

The present only is a man's possession; the past is gone out of his hand, wholly, irrevocably. He may suffer from it, learn from it — in degree, perhaps, expiate it; but to brood over it is utter madness.

[T]here are no judgments so harsh as those of the erring, the inexperienced, and the young.

A finished life — a life which has made the best of all the materials granted to it, and through which, be its web dark or bright, its pattern clear or clouded, can now be traced plainly the hand of the Great Designer; surely this is worth living for? And though at its end it may be somewhat lonely; though a servant's and not a daughter's arm may guide the failing step; though most likely it will be strangers only who come about the dying bed, close the eyes that no husband ever kissed, and draw the shroud kindly over the poor withered breast where no child's head has ever lain; still, such a life is not to be pitied, for it is a completed life. It has fulfilled its appointed course, and returns to the Giver of all breath, pure as He gave it. Nor will He forget it when He counteth up His jewels.