Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson, known professionally as Waldo Emerson, was an American essayist, lecturer, and poet who led the Transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century. He was seen as a champion of individualism and a prescient critic of the countervailing pressures of society, and he disseminated his thoughts through dozens of published essays and more than 1,500 public lectures across the United States...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth25 May 1803
CountryUnited States of America
Many time the reading of a book has made the future of a man.
This time is a very good one if we but know what to do with it
The intuition of the moral sentiment is an insight of the perfection of the laws of the soul. These laws execute themselves. They are out of time, out of space, and not subject to circumstance.
Our greatest glory is not in never failing, but in rising up every time we fail.
The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.
With the past, I have nothing to do; nor with the future. I live now.
We do not count a man's years until he has nothing else to count.
Finish each day before you begin the next, and interpose a solid wall of sleep between the two. This you cannot do without temperance.
To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same fields, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again.
Guard well your spare moments. They are like uncut diamonds. Discard them and their value will never be known. Improve them and they will become the brightest gems in a useful life.
Little minds have little worries, big minds have no time for worries.
The sum of wisdom is that time is never lost that is devoted to work.
To fill the hour──that is happiness.
How silent, how spacious, what room for all, yet without place to insert an atom--in graceful succession, in equal fullness, in balanced beauty, the dance of the hours goes forward still. Like an odor of incense, like a strain of music, like a sleep, it is inexact and boundless. It will not be dissected, nor unraveled, nor shown.