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STRESSLESSNESS is the only word that we know of that you can make in one game but not the other.
Stresslessness requires 7
S tiles. Both games have two blanks. Words With Friends™ has 5
S tiles and Scrabble® only has 4. If you look at the word counts in the lists for each game, they are nearly identical, and this is why. All 211,522 words in the Scrabbleable list can also be made in Words With Friends™.
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Liberty will not descend to a people; a people must raise themselves to liberty; it is a blessing that must be earned before it can be enjoyed.
Give me the liberty to know, to think, to believe, and to utter freely, according to conscience, above all other liberties.
The cry of the soul is for freedom. It longs for liberty, from the date of its first conscious moments.
J. G. Holland
The word independence is united to the accessory ideas of dignity and virtue; the word dependence is united to the ideas of inferiority and corruption.
He that marries for money sells his liberty.
He who has no opinion of his own, but depends upon the opinion and taste of others, is a slave.
A right independence of mind will enable us to stand alone amid the beating and breaking of storms that will bear against it - a mind that will think its own thoughts, and stand upon its own principles; leaning entirely upon others, and bowing continually, is no property of an independent mind.
J. W. Barker
There are two freedoms, - the false, where a man is free to do what he likes; the true, where a man is free to do what he ought.
True liberty is not liberty to do evil as well as good.
Freedom exists only where the people take care of the government.
That nation is in the enjoyment of liberty which stands by its own strength, and does not depend on the will of another.
We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
The spirit of liberty is not merely, as multitudes imagine, a jealousy of our own particular rights, but a respect for the rights of others, and an unwillingness that any man, whether high or low, should be wronged and trampled under foot.
W. E. Channing
Liberty is the richest inheritance which man has received from the skies! When shall its sacred fire burn in every bosom, and kindling with the thrilling force of inspiration, spread from heart to heart and from mind to mind, and be the common privilege and birthright of every human being?
A book should be luminous, but not voluminous.
Souls dwell in printer's type.
Ink is the blood of the printing press.
A great library contains the diary of the human race.
He has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy, within the four walls of his library. He has in his books the ruins of an antique world, and the glories of a modern one.
Those faithful mirrors, which reflect to our mind the minds of sages and heroes.
Some books are drenched sands, on which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps, like a wrecked argosy.
Some books we should keep in our hands, and on our hearts; the best way we could dispose of others would be, to throw them in the fire.
Books give the same turn to our thoughts that company does to our conversation, without loading our memories, or making us even sensible of the change.
Do not believe that a book is good, if in reading it thou dost not feel more contented with thy existence, if it does not rouse up in thee most generous feelings.
What gunpowder did for war, the printing-press has done for the mind; and the statesman is no longer clad in the steel of special education, but every reading man is his judge.
A library is but the soul's burial ground; it is the land of shadows.
H. W. Beecher
Libraries collect the works of genius of every language and every age.
A library is a precious catacomb, wherein are embalmed and preserved imperishably the great minds of the dead who will never die.
Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried.
The conscious utterance of thought, by speech or action, to any end, is art.
When the eye sees what it never saw, the heart will think what it never thought.
All that mankind has done, thought, gained, or been, - it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books.
Literature is the thought of thinking souls.
Consider what you have in the smallest chosen library. A company of the wisest and wittiest men that could be picked out of all civil countries, in a thousand years, have set in best order the results of their learning and wisdom. The men themselves were hid and inaccessible, solitary, impatient of interruption, fenced by etiquette; but the thought which they did not uncover to their bosom friend is here written out in transparent words to us, the strangers of another age.
If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead, either write things worth reading or do things worth writing.
The silent power of books is a great power in the world; and there is a joy in reading them which those alone can know who read them with desire and enthusiasm. Silent, passive, and noiseless though they be, they may yet set in action countless multitudes, and change the order of nations.
Have you ever rightly considered what the mere ability to read means? That it is the key which admits us to the whole world of thought and fancy and imagination? to the company of saint and sage, of the wisest and the wittiest at their wisest and wittiest moment? That it enables us to see with the keenest eyes, hear with the finest ears, and listen to the sweetest voices of all time? More than that, it annihilates time and space for us.
Spokenby Helen Hunt Jackson
Counting the hours by bells and lights
We rose and sank;
The waves on royal banquet-heights
Tossed off and drank
Their jewels made of sun and moon,
White pearls at midnight, gold at noon.
Trust in thine own untried capacity
As thou wouldst trust in God Himself. Thy soul
Is but an emanation from the whole.
Thou dost not dream what forces lie in thee,
Vast and unfathomed as the grandest sea.
Thy silent mind o'er diamond caves may roll,
Go seek them - but let guiding will control
Those passions which thy favouring winds can be.
Avenging and bright fell the swift sword of Erin,
On him who the sons of Usna betray'd;
For ev'ry fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in,
A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.
By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,
When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in gore;
By the pillows of war which, so often, high swelling,
Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore! --
Cold, my dear, -- cold and quiet.
In their cups on yonder lea,
Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet;
So the moss enfoldeth thee.
I will be true. Mad stars forsake their courses,
And, led by reckless meteors, turn away
From paths appointed by Eternal Forces;
But my fixed heart shall never go astray
Like those calm worlds whose sun-directed motion
Is undisturbed by strife of wind or sea,
So shall my swerveless and serene devotion
Sweep on for ever, loyal unto thee.
Little I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone,
(A very plain brown stone will do,)
That I may call my own; --
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.
O there are times
When all this fret and tumult that we hear
Do seem more stale than to the sexton's ear
His own dull chimes.
Ding dong! ding dong!
The world is in a simmer like a sea
Over a pent volcano, -- woe is me
All the day long!
Strikes it coldly on the heart --
Endure, endure, be what thou art?
Never bend beneath the load,
Never falter on the road,
Onward, proudly, through the strife,
'Tis the corner-stone of life;
Make your happiness secure,
Endure, endure, endure, endure!
The rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.
And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana in her dreams,
Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.
Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay
Tak's up its last abode;
His soul has ta'en some other way,
I fear, the left-hand road.
Look how the lark soars upward and is gone,
Turning a spirit as he nears the sky!
His voice is heard, but body there is none
To fix the vague excursions of the eye.
So, poets' songs are with us, though they die
Obscured and hid by Death's oblivious shroud,
And earth inherits the rich melody,
Like raining music from the morning cloud.
Oh, of course, it's bliss -- but how hot it is
And the rock I'm sitting on grows harder every minute;
Still the fisher waits, trying various baits,
But the baskets at his side, I see, have nothing in them.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
The face that Carlo Dolci drew
Looks down from out its leafy hood --
The holly berries, gleaming through
The pointed leaves, seem drops of blood.
Above the cornice, round the hearth,
Are evergreens and spruce-tree boughs;
'T is Christmas morning: Christmas mirth
And joyous voices fill the house.
Could I but measure my strength, by my love,
Were I as strong, as my heart's love is true,
I would pull down the stars, from the heavens above,
And weave them all into a garland for you.
And brighter, and better, your jewels should be
Than any proud queen's, that e'r dwelt o'er the sea.
Ay! richer and rarer, your gems, love, should be
Than any rare jewels that come from the sea.
God sent us here to make mistakes,
To strive, to fail, to re-begin,
To taste the tempting fruit of sin,
And find what bitter food it makes,
Wisdom wearies, Love has wings --
Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure stings,
Glory proves a thorny crown --
So all gifts the gods throw down
Bring their pains and troubles after;
All save Momus, god of laughter.
He alone gives constant joy,
Hail to Momus, happy boy!
O lay thy hand in mine, dear!
We're growing old, we're growing old;
But Time hath brought no sign, dear,
That hearts grow cold, that hearts grow cold.
'T is long, long since our new love
Made life divine, made life divine;
But age enricheth true love,
Like noble wine, like noble wine.
I hear the hoofs of horses
Galloping over the hill,
Galloping on and galloping on,
When all the night is shrill
With wind and rain that beats the pane --
And my soul with awe is still.
Two student lads one morning met
Under the blue-domed Texas skies;
Strangers by birth and station, yet
Youth's heart lies close beneath youth's eyes.
A thousand miles lay 'twixt their homes,
Watered by many a crystal stream;
Dame Nature reared a thousand domes,
And spread a thousand plains between.
They met, clasped hands, scorned bolt and bar,
Which cautious age puts on the heart;
Shared room and purse, then wandered far
By quiet ways and busy mart.
By San Antonio's winding stream,
Through narrow streets, the two lads passed,
Saw antique ruins, like some dream
Of ancient times.
A handful of red sand, from the hot clime
Of Arab deserts brought,
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,
The minister of Thought.
How many weary centuries has it been
About those deserts blown!
How many strange vicissitudes has seen,
How many histories known!
It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.
Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear,
Your head like the golden-rod,
And we will go sailing away from here
To the beautiful Land of Nod.
Away from life's hurry, and flurry, and worry,
Away from earth's shadows and gloom,
To a world of fair weather we'll float off together,
Where roses are always in bloom.
Hear the sledges with the bells,
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells --
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
O curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn!
O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn!
From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted,
Your sounds aërial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn!
Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight,
O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn!
Dear Love, whatever fate
The flying years unfold,
There's none can dissipate
The happiness we hold.
Whatever cloud may rise,
The very storms grow mild
Where bend the blissful skies
O'er Husband, Wife, and Child.
O the warm, sweet, mellow summer noon,
The golden calm and the perfumed air,
The chirp of birds and the locust's croon,
The rich flowers blossoming still and fair.
The old house lies 'mid the swarming leaves
Steeped in sunshine from porch to eaves,
With doors and windows thrown open wide
To welcome the beauty and bloom outside.
Night falls around us, like a mourner's veil;
But, though our beauties in the dimness fade,
Still does the pure, free essence we exhale
Ascend and penetrate the deepest shade.
If thus the better part of those you weep,
From death and darkness, rose to life and light;
Then lift your hearts from all that earth could keep
To that blest world where you may re-unite.
Such is the part that we, the humble Flowers,
Perform; and such the solace we would give
To man, who, while we bloom our few short hours,
Has yet a whole eternity to live!
I would build a cloudy House
For my thoughts to live in:
When for earth too fancy-loose,
And too low for Heaven!
Hush! I talk my dream aloud --
I build it bright to see, --
I build it on the moonlit cloud
To which I looked with thee.
Dearest though I have sung a many songs,
Yet have I never sung one from my heart,
Save to thee only -- and such private songs
Are as the silent, secret kiss of Love!
My heart, I say, so sacred was, and is,
I kept, I keep it, from all eyes but thine,
Because it is no longer mine, but thine,
Given thee forever, when I gave myself
That winter morning -- was it years ago?
I thought this Pen would arise
From the casket where it lies -
Of itself would arise, and write
My thanks and my surprise.
Yes, she is beautiful indeed!
The soft blue eyes, the golden hair,
The brow where pleasant thoughts we read,
The radiant smile, the winning air,
The cherub form of perfect grace,
Whose fairy steps in music glide --
And oh! that sweet, that heavenly face!
Well may she be her mother's pride!
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat;
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw,
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,
For ever -- never!
Never -- for ever!
Halfway up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, --
For ever -- never!
Never -- for ever!
The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street
Comes stealing; comes creeping;
The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,
And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet --
She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,
When she findeth you sleeping!
It tossed its head at the wooing breeze;
And the sun, like a bashful swain,
Beamed on it through the waving trees
With a passion all in vain, --
For my rose laughed in a crimson glee,
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
The honey-bee came there to sing
His love through the languid hours,
And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king
Might boast of his palace-towers:
But my rose bowed in a mockery,
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.
When Venus, mother and maker of blisses,
Rose out of the billows, large-limbed, and fair,
She stood on the sands and blew sweet kisses
To the salt sea-wind as she dried her hair.
Across the narrow beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I;
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
The scattered driftwood bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit, --
One little sandpiper and I.
With stammering lips and insufficient sound,
I strive and struggle to deliver right
That music of my nature, day and night,
With dream and thought and feeling, interwound,
And inly answering all the senses round
With octaves of a mystic depth and height,
Which step out grandly to the infinite
From the dark edges of the sensual ground!
Husband, to-day could you and I behold
The sun that brought us to our bridal morn
Rising so splendid in the winter sky
(We thought fair spring returned), when we were wed;
Could the shades vanish from these fifteen years,
Which stand like columns guarding the approach
To that great temple of the double soul
That is as one -- would you turn back, my dear,
And, for the sake of Love's mysterious dream,
As old as Adam and as sweet as Eve,
Take me, as I took you, and once more go
Towards that goal which none of us have reached?
Thou art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wond'rous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn Thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine!
Oh! 'tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear,
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near!
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine with itself, and make closely its own.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near.
Take, then, this treasure to thy trust,
To win some idle reader's smile,
Then fade and moulder in the dust,
Or swell some bonfire's crackling pile.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Was, Is, and Yet-to-Be
Were chatting over a cup of tea.
In tarnished finery smelling of must,
Was talked of people long turned to dust;
Of titles and honours and high estate,
All forgotten or out of date;
-- A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I every day a tender lay
Shall waken to her name,
And every night to throne of might
Shall kneel to bless the same;
For years and years, through smiles and tears,
I'll prize her all above;
And well shall this insure the bliss
That hails our wedded love.
Love is the centre and circumference;
The cause and aim of all things - 'tis the key
To joy and sorrow, and the recompense
For all the ills that have been, or may be.
But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly,
With that rare meekness, born of gentleness,
Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy,
The women whom all little children bless.
Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other,
With finest scorn for all things low and mean;
Women who hold the names of wife and mother
Far nobler than the title of a Queen.
Oh, these are they who mould the men of story,
These mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and youth,
Who, worn and weary, ask no greater glory
Than making some young soul the home of truth;
Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowing
The seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin,
And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest growing
And weed out tares which crafty hands cast in.
Give us that grand word
woman once again,
And let's have done with
lady: one's a term
Full of fine force, strong, beautiful, and firm,
Fit for the noblest use of tongue or pen;
And one's a word for lackeys. One suggests
The Mother, Wife, and Sister! One the dame
Whose costly robe, mayhap, gives her the name.