26 quotes
Never, dear father, love can be,
Like the dear love I had for thee!
The Troubadour (1825)
Oh, where is there the heart but knows
Love's first steps are upon the rose!
The Troubadour (1825)
'Tis strange how the heart can create
Or colour from itself its fate;
We make ourselves our own distress,
We are ourselves our happiness.
The Troubadour (1825)
The scar of fire, the dint of steel,
Are easier than Love's wounds to heal.
The Troubadour (1825)
Alas! that every lovely thing
Lives only but for withering,—
That spring rainbows and summer shine
End but in autumn's pale decline.
The Troubadour (1825)
Oh! why should woman ever love,
Trusting to one false star above;
And fling her little chance away
Of sunshine for its treacherous ray.
The Troubadour (1825)
Where is the heart that has not bow'd
A slave, eternal Love, to thee:
Look on the cold, the gay, the proud,
And is there one among them free?
The Troubadour (1825)
Oh! what is memory but a gift
Within a ruin'd temple left,
Recalling what its beauties were,
And then presenting what they are.
The Troubadour (1825)
"There is a steep and lofty wall,
Where my warders trembling stand,
He who at speed shall ride round its height,
For him shall be my hand."
The Troubadour (1825)
AY, screen thy favourite dove, fair child,
Ay, screen it if you may,—
Yet I misdoubt thy trembling hand
Will scare the hawk away.
The Troubadour (1825)
I LOVED her! ay, I would have given
A death-bed certainty of heaven
If I had thought it could confer
The least of happiness on her!
The Troubadour (1825)
Beautiful language! Love's peculiar, own,
But only to the spring and summer known.
The Troubadour (1825)
'Tis not for Spring to think on all
The sear and waste of Autumn's fall: —
The Troubadour (1825)
Alas, tears are the poet's heritage!
The Troubadour (1825)
It matters not its history; love has wings
Like lightning , swift and fatal, and it springs
Like a wild flower where it is least expected,
Existing whether cherish'd or rejected
The Troubadour (1825)
Oh, she had yet the task to learn
How often woman's heart must turn
To feed upon its own excess
Of deep yet passionate tenderness!
How much of grief the heart must prove
That yields a sanctuary to love!
The Troubadour (1825)
Oh, love is timid in its birth!
Watching her lightest look or stir,
As he but look'd and breathed with her.
Gay words were passing, but he leant
In silence; yet, one quick glance sent,—
His secret is no more his own,
When has woman her power not known?
The Troubadour (1825)
The first, the very first; oh! none
Can feel again as they have done;
In love, in war, in pride, in all
The planets of life's coronal,
However beautiful or bright,—
What can be like their first sweet light?
The Troubadour (1825)
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)
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)