655 quotes
Blush'd the first blush of coming day,
Faded the fairy band away.
They pass'd and only left behind
A lingering fragrance on the wind,
And on the lake, their haunted home,
One long white wreath of silver foam.
The Golden Violet (1827)
{of Theatres} There, while weeping for sorrows which are not, laughing at the light jest or the ludicrous misadventure, how little is remembered of the want which makes fear the only bond that binds the living to life !
Heath's book of Beauty, 1833 (1832)
Upon the sunny grass-plot stood the dial,
Whose measured time strange contrast with ours made :
Ah ! was it omen of life's after trial,
That even then the hours were told in shade,
In the old, old times,
The dear old times ?
What mockeries are our most firm resolves !
To will is ours, but not to execute.
We map our future like some unknown coast,
And say, "Here is an harbour, here a rock —
The one we will attain, the other shun :"
And we do neither.
It is the mistake of a coxcomb, whose experience of affection is all to come—if it ever comes—to say that women are won by mere good looks. Though it does not owe its birth to them. Gratitude and Vanity are the nurses that rock the cradle of Love.
Heath's book of Beauty, 1833 (1832)
He fell as other thousands do,
Trampled down where they fall,
While on a single name is heap'd
The glory gain'd by all.
Yet even he whose common grave
Lies in the open fields,
Died not without a thought of all
The joy that glory yields.
The Troubadour (1825)
It was a summer evening; and the sea
Seem'd to rejoice in its tranquillity ;
Rolling its gentle waters to the west,
Till the rich crimson blush'd upon their breast,
Uniting lovingly the wave and sky,
Like Hope content in its delight to die.
The Golden Violet (1827)
Had my eye never on the beauty dwelt
Of human face, and my ear never drank
The music of a human voice; I feel
My spirit would have pour'd itself in song,
Have learn'd a language from the rustling leaves,
The singing of the birds, and of the tide.
The Golden Violet (1827)
I can pass days
Stretch'd in the shade of those old cedar trees,
Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall,—
The breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs,—
Each tree a natural harp,— each different leaf
A different note, blent in one vast thanks-giving.
The Venetian Bracelet (1829)
This mountain-ash, whose flower-fill'd boughs
Spread like a cloud at noon —
Whose shade is as a haunted place
For the sweet airs of June :
'Twas but a little shrub when first
I wreathed amid thy hair
Its berries, like the coral crown
That the sea-maidens wear.
Who does not know the restlessness of an anticipated arrival ?
Experiments; or The Lover from Ennui
Heath's book of Beauty, 1833 (1832)
The Little Boy’s Bed-Time See under Translations
"Waverley" was the avater (sic) of a new era
It is not him, not the bold enemy
That rushes fiercely on the healthful breast.
For such I have no fear. ’Tis this dull jail
That makes the hero and the coward one !
There was a grave just closed. Not one seemed near,
To pay the tribute of one long—last tear!
How very desolate must that one be,
Whose more than grave has not a memory!
The Improvisatrice (1824)
Who has not loathed that worst, that waking hour,
When grief and consciousness assert their power;
When misery has morn's freshness, yet we fain
Would hold it as a dream, and sleep again
The Venetian Bracelet (1829)
Another soft and scented page,
Fill'd with more honied words !
What motives to a pilgrimage
A shrine like mine affords !
I know, before I break the seal,
The words that I shall find:—
Heath's book of Beauty, 1833 (1832)
I deeply swore
No lip should sigh where mine before
Had sealed its vow, no heart should rest
Upon the bosom mine had prest.
Life had no ill I would not brave
To claim him, even in the grave!
The Vow of the Peacock (1835)
Full quote: Truly, society is like a large piece of frozen water ; there are the rough places to be shunned, the very slippery ones all ready for a fall, and the holes which seem made expressly to drown you. All that can be done is to glide lightly over them. Skating well is the great art of social life.
Francesca Carrara (1834)
The hope that clings to the least glimpse of blue
Amid a sky of murkiness ; the fear
That sickens at itself; the fond deceit,
That will not see the truth ; the tenderness,
That only asks to trust ; and, at the last,
The knowledge we have known in vain so long
Comes like a thunderbolt, and crashes.