27 quotes
In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer.
Hyperion (1839)
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)
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)
Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and with a manly heart.
Hyperion (1839)
A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years' study of books.
Hyperion (1839)
For next to being a great poet is the power of understanding one.
Hyperion (1839)
Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us. There lies the Land of Song; there lies the poet's native land.
Hyperion (1839)
Fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.
Hyperion (1839)
Oh, well has it been said, that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak!
Hyperion (1839)
And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.
Hyperion (1839)
Sometimes we may learn more from a man's errors than from his virtues.
Hyperion (1839)
Then stars arise, and the night is holy.
Hyperion (1839)
The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone.
Hyperion (1839)
Time, like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry.
Hyperion (1839)
Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole heaven within it.
Hyperion (1839)
Dost thou know what a hero is? Why, a hero is as much as one should say,—a hero.
Hyperion (1839)
I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. Those only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a steady, lambent light,—are luminous, but not sparkling.
Hyperion (1839)
I have a passion for ballads. * * * They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,—in the genial Summertime.
Hyperion (1839)
Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.
Hyperion (1839)
Something the heart must have to cherish,
Must love and joy and sorrow learn;
Something with passion clasp, or perish
And in itself to ashes burn.
Hyperion (1839)