All Quotes

"We deny that poetry is fiction; its merit and its power lie alike in its truth:"

"There is a favourite in every family; and, generally speaking, that favourite is the most troublesome member in it."

"He had married for love, under the frequent delusion of supposing that love will last under every circumstance most calculated to destroy it ; and, secondly, that it can supply the place of everything else."

"Other sorrows soften the heart, — poverty hardens it. Nothing like poverty for chilling the affections and repressing the spirits. Its annoyances are all of the small and mean order ; its regrets all of a selfish kind ; its presence is perpetual ; and the scant meal, and the grudged fire, are repeated day by day, yet who can become accustomed to them ?"

"A woman always exaggerates her beauty and its influence when they are past ; and it was a perpetual grief to think what her pretty face might have done for her."

"Everybody has some particular point on which they pique themselves ; generally something which ill deserves the pride bestowed upon it."

"She had always thought she would be like her father, and fancied a tall, dark, and handsome face."

"Philosophers are moral, and poets are picturesque about the country."

"It is an unpleasant thing to differ in opinion with the rest of one's species — it is making a sort of North Pole of one's own, and then setting out in search of it."

"I like to be candid in my admissions — it is so very disarming ; you forestall the objection which you admit — at least your adversary has scarcely the heart to push to its utmost the advantage which you so meekly confess."

"Ah ! I appeal to all who have any sensibility — for themselves — how delightful it is to be called in the morning, yet not to obey that call. It combines two of the greatest enjoyments of which our nature is susceptible— obstinacy and indolence."

"A London day requires to be well aired before it is ventured into."

"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."

"We enjoy no pleasure so much as we do tormenting ourselves."

"Pattern love-letter — "I — I — I — you — you — you ; you — you — you — I — I — I," garnished with loves and doves ad libitum."

"... we English people delight in a moral — not a moral to be deduced or inferred, but a nice, rounded, little moral, in all the starch of set sentences, and placed just at the end,"

"Perhaps it is a benevolent provision of Nature that we remember more what touches than what pains us."

"There cannot be a greater error than to suppose that the poet does not feel what he writes. What an extraordinary, I might say, impossible view, is this to take of an art more connected with emotion than any of its sister sciences. What — the depths of the heart are to be sounded, its mysteries unveiled, and its beatings numbered by those whose own heart is made by this strange doctrine — a mere machine wound up by the clock-work of rhythm ! No ; poetry is even more a passion than a power, and nothing is so strongly impressed on composition as the character of the writer. I should almost define poetry to be the necessity of feeling strongly in the first instance, and the as strong necessity of confiding in the second."

"Praise — actual personal praise— oftener frets and embarrasses than it encourages. It is too small when too near."

"There is a well of melancholy poetry in every human bosom. We have all mourned over the destroyed illusion and the betrayed hope. We have quarrelled in some embittered moment with an early friend, and when too late lamented the estrangement."

"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."

"Ridicule parts social life like an invisible paling ; and we are all of us afraid of the other. To this may be in great measure attributed the difference that exists between an author's writings and his conversation. The one is often sad and thoughtful, while the other is lively and careless. The fact is, that the real character is shown in the first instance, and the assumed in the second."

"I heard them hymn his name--his power,-- I heard them, and I smiled; How could they say the earth was ruled By but a sleeping child?"

"The past is the poet's,—that world is his own; Thence hath his music its truth and its tone. He calls up the shadows of ages long fled, And light, as life lovely, illumines the dead."

"Youth is too eager, forth it flings Itself upon exulting wings, Which seek the heaven they ask too near— One wild flight ends the bright career; With broken wing and darkened eye, Earth claims again its own to die."

"Ah! love and song are but a dream, A flower's faint shade on life's dark stream."

"There is a city, that for slaves Has kings, and nations, winds, and waves: St. Mark is conscious of her power, His winged lion marks her tower."

"Ah, minstrel song hath many wings! From foreign lands its wealth it brings."

"The lark is with triumphant song Singing the rose-touched clouds among: 'Tis there that lighted song has birth, What hath such hymn to do with earth?"

"Many a head that down had lain, Impatient with its twelve hours' pain, And wishing that the bed it prest, Were, as the grave's, a long last rest, Has sprung again at morning's call, Forgiving, or forgetting all; Lighting the weary weight of thought With colours from the day-break brought, Reading new promise in the sky, And hearing Hope, the lark on high."

"Of all the fowls that sweep the air None with the Peacock may compare; Not only for its loveliness, Though queens in vain might ask such dress, But o'er those painted plumes are cast So many shadows from the past,—"

"Oh! sweet and sudden fire that springs With but a look to light its wings; How false to say thou needest time The bright ascent of hope to climb; A star thou art, that may not be Reckoned by dull astronomy!"

"Love's gifts are like the vein of gold That intersects earth's darker mould; The gold is gained, the coin is wrought; But how much trouble has it brought?"

"But who e'er turned from beauty's ray For fear of future shade; Or who e'er flung a rose away Because that rose might fade."

"How life effaces as it goes The keenest pang of earlier woes. How careless and how cold we grow, Dry as the dust we tread below;"

"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 twilight, when our earth seems blending Its human passion with the skies; And rosy clouds, above ascending, Wear mortal colours while they rise, Till, purified, they disappear Amid the high pale atmosphere."

"He took his lute—his voice was low, So lapsing waters softly flow Amid the drooping flowers around, As if they turned their sighs to sound. Ah, magic! of a voice that seems To haunt the soul with hopes and dreams;"

"The field is fought—who walketh there?— The shadow victory casts—Despair!"

"Night came—the deep and purple time Of summer in a southern clime."

"Take that singing bird away! It has too glad a lay For an ear so lorn as mine! And its wings are all too light, And its feathers all too bright, To rest in a bosom like mine!"

"Oh, weary day that seemed so long! Oh, hours that dragged their weight along!"

"Weep not for the dead with a fruitless recalling, Their soul on the wings of the morning hath fled; Mourn rather for those whom yet life is enthralling, Ah! weep for the living—weep not for the dead."

"She leant upon her harp, and thousands looked On her in love and wonder—thousands knelt And worshipp'd in her presence—burning tears, And words that died in utterance, and a pause Of breathless, agitated eagerness, First gave the full heart's homage: then came forth A shout that rose to heaven; and the hills, The distant valleys, all rang with the name Of the Æolian Sappho—every heart Found in itself some echo to her song."

"[Alvine] Oh, that sweet ring of graceful figures ! one Flings her white arms on high, and gaily strikes Her golden cymbals — I can almost deem I hear their beatings; one with glancing feet Follows her music, while her crimson cheek Is flushed with exercise, till the red grape 'Mid the dark tresses of a sister nymph Is scarcely brighter ; there another stands, A darker spirit yet, with joyous brow, And holding a rich goblet ;"

"[Alvine] 'Tis one of those bright fictions that have made The name of Greece only another word For love and poetry ; with a green earth— Groves of the graceful myrtle — summer skies, Whose stars are mirror'd in ten thousand streams— Winds that move but in perfume and in music, And, more than all, the gift of woman's beauty. What marvel that the earth, the sky, the sea, Were filled with all those fine imaginings That love creates, and that the lyre preserves !"

"One of the loveliest daughters of that land, Divinest Greece ! that taught the painter's hand To give eternity to loveliness ; One of those dark-eyed maids, to whom belong The glory and the beauty of each Song Thy poets breathed, for it was theirs to bless With life the pencil and the lyre's dreams, Giving reality to visioned gleams Of bright divinities."

"A small clear fountain, with green willow trees; Girdling it round, there is one single spot Where you may sit and rest, its only bank;"

"But these days Of visible poetry have long been past!— No fear that the young hunter may profane The haunt of some immortal;"

"But there are natural temples still for those Eternal though dethroned Deities, Where from green altars flowers send up their incense: This fount is one of them. —"