655 quotes
—the unpunished crime is never regretted. We weep over the consequence, not over the fault.
Poetry
Heath's book of Beauty, 1833 (1832)
Lonely — lonely on the shore —
Where the mighty waters roar,
Would that she could pass them o'er!
Doth the maiden stand.
Around his neck a ribbon clung,
Close to his heart a picture hung :
I saw the face — it was not mine ;
I saw, too, a small dagger shine,
A curious toy — you know the rest.
Hope, frail but lovely shadow ! thou dost come,
Like a bright vision on our pathway here,
Making the gloomy future beautiful,
And gilding our horizon with a light,
The fairest human eye can ever know.
The Fate of Adelaide (1821)
We would liken music to Aladdin’s lamp — worthless in itself, not so for the spirits which obey its call. We love it for the buried hopes, the garnered memories, the tender feelings, it can summon with a touch.
Romance and Reality (1831)
Like prisoners escaped during night from their prison,
The waters fling gaily their spray to the sun;
Who can tell me from whence that glad river has risen?
Who can say whence it springs in its beauty?—not one.
The Vow of the Peacock (1835)
I have a summer gift,
A sunny gift for thee :
See this white vase, where blooms
A beautiful rose tree.
And on its crimson leaves
Your heart must moralize,
For love a lesson takes
Of every leaf that dies.
She gazed, although she knew not why,
Where ocean seemed another sky.
The moon looked down upon the deep,
Till in that deep it seemed to be;
Scarce might the eye the image keep
Of which was sky, and which was sea.
The Vow of the Peacock (1835)
A blossom full of promise is life's joy,
That never comes to fruit; hope, for a time,
Suns the young floweret in its gladsome light,
And it looks flourishing—a little while,
Tis past, we know not whither, but 'tis gone—
The cold north wind which bows to earth
The lightness of the willow's birth
Bends not the mountain cedar trees;
Folding their branches from the breeze,
They stand as if they could defy
The utmost rage of storm and sky.
The Troubadour (1825)
When will my soul forget the look
With which one single stem she took
From out the wreath ?—a tulip flower;
But, touch'd as by some withering power,
The painted leaves were drooping round
The rich but burning heart they bound.
The Golden Violet (1827)
'Tis this which makes
The best assurance of our promised heaven:
This triumph intellect has over death—
Our words yet live on others' lips; our thoughts
Actuate others. Can that man be dead
Whose spiritual influence is upon his kind?
The Venetian Bracelet (1829)
Who knows how many links we may have to ascend in the vast cycle of worlds around, ere we arrive at the one which is knowledge — where we may look before, and after, and judge of the whole ? How many stages of probation may we yet have to pass !
Francesca Carrara (1834)
And yet it is a wasted heart :
It is a wasted mind
That seeks not in the inner world
Its happiness to find ;
For happiness is like the bird
That broods above its nest,
And finds beneath its folded wings,
Life's dearest, and its best.
And here at length is somewhat of revenge:
For man's most golden dreams of pride and power
Are vain as any woman-dreams of love;
Both end in weary brow and wither'd heart,
And the grave closes over those whose hopes
Have lain there long before.
The Golden Violet (1827)
There is one conviction at which, though forced upon us by daily experience, we never arrive, namely, the conviction that Nobody in reality cares for Anybody; but this truth is so cold that we fence it out by all sorts of cloaks and coverings, delusions and devices.
Passing thus with time away,
The sweet gifts of youth decay ;
Fleet their blooms, thus one by one,
Till their very form is gone ;
Memory left but to declare
How beautiful and sweet they were!
In the first blue noon of Spring,
Who can think on withering?
THE Moon is sailing o'er the sky,
But lonely all, as if she pined
For somewhat of companionship,
And felt it was in vain she shined:
Earth is her mirror, and the stars
Are as the court around her throne;
She is a beauty and a queen;
But what is this? she is alone.
The Vow of the Peacock (1835)
Glorious and beautiful
Were youth's feeling and youth's thought—
Would that we did not annul
All that in us then was wrought !
Would their influence could remain
When the hope and dream depart ;
Would we might through life retain
Still some youth within the heart !
It was no fancy, he had named the name
Of love, and at that thought her cheek grew flame
The Troubadour (1825)