429 quotes
We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.
Kavanagh: A Tale (1849)
They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast,
And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.
Thy fate is the common fate of all;
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
Ballads and Other Poems (1842)
Music is the universal language of mankind — poetry their universal pastime and delight.
Outre-Mer (1835)
Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think.
Kavanagh: A Tale (1849)
If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
Table-Talk (1857)
In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer.
Hyperion (1839)
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.
Kavanagh: A Tale (1849)
Believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows, which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.
Hyperion (1839)
Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.
The Golden Legend (1851)
A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.
The surest pledge of a deathless name
Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.
O, there is nothing holier, in this life of ours, than the first consciousness of love,—the first fluttering of its silken wings.
Hyperion (1839)
Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.
This divine madness enters more or less into all our noblest undertakings.
Table-Talk (1857)
Ah, how wonderful is the advent of spring!
Kavanagh: A Tale (1849)
A Lady with a Lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood.
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
Ballads and Other Poems (1842)
Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies;
Dead he is not, but departed, — for the artist never dies.
Nuremburg (1846)
Great men stand like solitary towers in the city of God.
Kavanagh: A Tale (1849)