655 quotes
A will of his own in a young man without a shilling is a superfluity
The morning Sun arose —
Still the festal board was spread —
Still hosts and guests were round ;
But hosts and guests were dead !
'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel,
Far better had'st thou proved;
Ev'n I could almost pity feel,
For thou art not beloved.
The Venetian Bracelet (1829)
The path was new, and there was thrown
A sweet veil over pleasure's ray ;
But ignorance is happiness,
When young Hope is to show the way
What a falsehood it is to say that genius and industry are incompatible ! Does one work of genius exist that has not also been a work of labour ?
Heath's book of Beauty, 1833 (1832)
Distinction is purchased at the expense of sympathy
Heath's book of Beauty, 1833 (1832)
—vanity, like all social vices, craves for novelty
Heath's book of Beauty, 1833 (1832)
Oh, there are evil moments in our life,
When but a thought, a word, a look, has power
To dash the cup of happiness aside,
And stamp us wretched!
The Vow of the Peacock (1835)
If, even at three years old, we turn to the pleasures of memory, the less that is asserted about the felicity of childhood, the less there will be to dispute.
No one can deny—no one would think of denying—the vast benefit which literature has conferred on mankind; and with what ingratitude has it ever been received!
I numbered years of pain and distress,
And but fourteen days of happiness.
Mortal, nor pleasure, nor wealth, nor power,
Are more than the toys of a passing hour
The Golden Violet (1827)
Real feeling is shy of expression
Ethel Churchill (1837)
A despotic power makes slaves.
Heath's book of Beauty, 1833 (1832)
A soft and blue Italian sky, — the blue
That painters and that poets love, — the blue
The lover worships in the maiden's eyes,
Whose beauty is their power and spell.
He knelt him down on the new-raised mound,
His face was bowed on the cold damp ground,
He raised his head, his tears were done,
The father had prayed o'er his only son!
The Improvisatrice (1824)
Oh, what am I, and what are they ?
Masquers but striving to deceive
Themselves and others ; and believe
It is enough, if none shall know
The covered mass of care below.
The Golden Violet (1827)
But the words of lovers are a language apart; their melody is a fairy song departing with the one haunted hour; to repeat it is to make it commonplace—cold, yet we can all remember it.
In childhood, the impetus of conversation is curiosity. The child talks to ask questions. But one of its first lessons, as it advances, is that a question is an intrusion, and an answer a deceit.
There is an indolence in grief
Which will not even seek relief.
What is the toil, or care, or pain,
The human heart cannot sustain?
Enough if struggling can create
A change or colour in our fate;
But where's the spirit that can cope
With listless suffering, when hope,
The last of misery's allies,
Sickens of its sweet self, and dies.
The Troubadour (1825)
Do any thing but love ; or if thou lovest
And art a Woman, hide thy love from him
Who thou dost worship ; never let him know
How dear he is ; flit like a bird before him, —
Lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower ;
But be not won, or thou wilt, like that bird,
When caught and caged, be left to pine neglected,
And perish in forgetfulness.