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Image of the quote is loading... SaveSave Language is the blood of the soul into which thoughts run and out of which they grow. - Quote by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.

Language is the blood of the soul into which thoughts run and out of which they grow.

Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
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More Quotes From Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.

My experience with public libraries is that the first volume of the book I inquire for is out, unless I happen to want the second, when that is out.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
Every library should try to complete on something, if it were only the history of pinheads.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
I hate paying taxes. But I love the civilization they give me
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
When men have realized that time has upset many fighting faiths, they may come to believe... that the ultimate good desired is better reached by free trade in ideas-- that the best test of truth is the power of the thought to get itself accepted in the competition of the market, and that truth is the only ground upon which their wishes safely can be carried out. That at any rate is the theory of our Constitution. It is an experiment. As all life is an experiment. Every year if not every day we wager our salvation upon some prophecy based upon imperfect knowledge.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
Where we love is home, home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
Sin has many tools, but a lie is the handle which fits them all.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
Many ideas grow better when transplanted into another mind than in the one where they sprang up.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
The Last LeafI saw him once before,As he passed by the door,And againThe pavement stones resound,As he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning-knife of TimeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the Crier on his roundThrough the town.But now he walks the streets,And looks at all he meetsSad and wan,And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he has prestIn their bloom,And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.My grandmamma has saidPoor old lady, she is deadLong agoThat he had a Roman nose,And his cheek was like a roseIn the snow;But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff,And a crook is in his back,And a melancholy crackIn his laugh.I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here;But the old three-cornered hat,And the breeches, and all that,Are so queer!And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
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