655 quotes
There is a large stock on hand; but somehow or other, nobody's experience ever suits us but our own.
Romance and Reality (1831)
The world is as the sea, in whose salt waves,
Like streams, we lose the freshness of our youth.
I dreamed a dream, that I had flung a chain
Of roses around Love,—I woke, and found
I had chained Sorrow.
I never knew any debatable point not maintained on both sides by unanswerable arguments...
Leaves grow green to fall,
Flowers grow fair to fade,
Fruits grow ripe to rot —
All but for passing made.
Our own faults are those we are the first to detect, and the last to forgive, in others.
The presence of perpetual change
Is ever on the earth;
To-day is only as the soil
That gives to-morrow birth.
Yes, solitude amid her depths has many a hidden balm
Guarded for those who leave her not, to strengthen and to calm.
Nothing can be permitted to the few ; rights and advantages were sent for all ...
There is nothing so easy as to be wise for others ; a species of prodigality, by the by — for such wisdom is wholly wasted.
Romance and Reality (1831)
Easy ’tis advice to give,
Hard it is advice to take
Years that lived—and years to live,
Wide and weary difference make.
My tears are buried in my heart,
Like cave-locked fountains sleeping.
The Venetian Bracelet (1829)
-- social life is fill'd
With doubts and vain aspirings; solitude,
When the imagination is dethroned,
Is turned to weariness.
The Venetian Bracelet (1829)
Poetry is the immortality of earth: where shall we look for our noblest thoughts, and our tenderest feelings, but in its eternal pages?
The same, yet not the same — her face
Has still that Grecian line ;
The sculptured perfectness whose grace
Has long been held divine.
Enthusiasm is the divine particle in our composition: with it we are great, generous, and true; without it, we are little, false, and mean.
No thoroughly occupied man was ever yet very miserable.
Romance and Reality (1831)
We need to suffer, that we may learn to pity.
Ethel Churchill (1837)
We cannot soothe the pain we do not know.
History hath but few pages—soon is told
Man’s ordinary life,
Labour, and care, and strife,
Make up the constant chronicle of old.