A Quote by Woodrow Wilson

Whate'er my doom;
It cannot be unhappy: God hath given me
The boon of resignation. — © Woodrow Wilson
Whate'er my doom; It cannot be unhappy: God hath given me The boon of resignation.
Dear God, I prayed, all unafraid (as we're inclined to do), I do not need a handsome man but let him be like You; I do not need one big and strong nor yet so very tall, nor need he be some genius, or wealthy, Lord, at all; but let his head be high, dear God, and let his eye be clear, his shoulders straight, whate'er his state, whate'er his earthly sphere; and let his face have character, a ruggedness if soul, and let his whole life show, dear God, a singleness of goal; then when he comes (as he will come) with quiet eyes aglow, I'll understand that he's the man I prayed for long ago.
Whate'er thy joys, they vanish with the day: Whate'er thy griefs, in sleep they fade away, To sleep! to sleep! Sleep, mournful heart, and let the past be past: Sleep, happy soul, all life will sleep at last.
Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.
There is indeed a God that hears and sees whate'er we do. [Lat., Est profecto deus, qui, quae nos gerimus, auditque et videt.]
If any be unhappy, let him remember that he is unhappy by reason of himself alone. For God hath made all men to enjoy felicity and constancy of good.
It fortifies my soul to know That, though I perish, Truth is so: That, howsoe'er I stray and range, Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change. I steadier step when I recall That, if I slip Thou dost not fall.
For me, my craft is sailing on,Through mists to-day, clear seas anon.Whate'er the final harbor be'T is good to sail upon the sea!
Know'st not whate'er we do is done in love?
That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; What hath quenched them hath given me fire.
Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
This Day, whate'er the Fates decree; Shall still be kept with Joy by me: This Day then, let us not be told, That you are sick, and I grown old
Whate'er is well conceived is clearly said, And the words to say it flow with ease.
Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf, Not one will change his neighbor with himself.
Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
Whoe'er imagines prudence all his own, Or deems that he hath powers to speak and judge Such as none other hath, when they are known, They are found shallow.
Oh God love Susan Boyle. God love 'er. I've nothing more to say about Susan, except God love 'er and God bless 'er.
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