All Quotes

"Remembrance makes the poet; 'tis the past Lingering within him, with a keener sense Than is upon the thoughts of common men Of what has been, that fills the actual world With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes, That were and are not; and the fairer they, The more their contrast with existing things, The more his power, the greater is his grief."

"I held that Love Which chooseth from a thousand only one, To be the object of that tenderness Natural to every heart; which can resign Its own best happiness for one dear sake; Can bear with absence; hath no part in Hope,— For Hope is somewhat selfish, Love is not,— And doth prefer another to itself."

"Alas! we make A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, But sleep ourselves at the foot: our high resolves Look down upon our slumbering acts."

"There was a sculptured form; the feet were placed Upon a finely-carved rose wreath; the arms Were raised to Heaven, as if to clasp the stars EULALIA leant beside; 'twas hard to say Which was the actual marble: when she spoke, You started, scarce it seem'd a human sound; But the eyes' lustre told life linger'd still; And now the moonlight seem'd to fill their depths."

"Peace to the weary and the beating heart, That fed upon itself!"

"IT is in this we differ; I would seek To blend my very being into thine— I'm even jealous of thy memory: I wish our childhood had been pass'd together."

"the hollow voice Of that old crone, the only living sound; Her face, on which mortality has writ Its closing, with the wan and bony hand, Raised like a spectre's—and yourself the while, Cold from the midnight chill, and white with fear, Your large blue eyes darker and larger grown With terror's chain'd attention, and your breath Suppress'd for very earnestness."

"Now I have no hope that does not dream for thee; I have no joy that is not shared by thee; I have no fear that does not dread for thee."

"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."

"A weight is on the air, for ev'ry breeze Has, bird-like, folded up its wings for sleep."

"Blue hyacinths! Oh, do not show them me; they fill my eyes With tears too soft for such a scene as this."

"I am spectator, not partaker, here. To me it seems more like a pageant made To represent mirth, than the mirth itself."

"The early graced of Grecian song, The fragrant myrtle tree; For it doth speak of happy love, The delicate, the true."

"Thou blessed season of our spring, When hopes are angels on the wing; Bound upwards to their heavenly shore, Alas! to visit earth no more."

"Alas! the praise given to the ear Ne'er was nor e'er can be sincere— And does but waste away the mind On which it preys:—in vain Would they in whom its poison lurks A worthier state attain."

"Thy voice is sweet, as if it took Its music from thy face. And word and mien, and step and look, Are perfect in their grace."

"How can they say confiding is relief? Light are the woes that to the eyelids spring, Subdued and soften'd by the tears they bring; But there are some too long, too well conceal'd, Too deeply felt,—that are but once reveal'd: Like the withdrawing of the mortal dart, And then the life-blood follows from the heart; Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh, But which, once spoken, only hath to die.—"

"How deep, how merciless, the love represt, That robs the silent midnight of its rest; That sees in gather'd crowds but one alone; That hears in mingled footsteps only one; That turns the poet's page, to only find Some mournful image for itself design'd; That seeks in music, but the plaining tone Which secret sorrow whispers is its own!"

"The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it, Or who ever read in the depths of their own? — How much, we never may speak of, yet feel it, But, even in feeling it, know it unknown!"

"Spirit, that ruleth man's life to its ending, Chance, Fortune, Fate, answer my summoning now; The storm o'er the face of the night is descending,— Fair moon, the dark clouds hide thy silvery brow. Let these bring thy answer, and tell me if sadness For ever man's penance and portion must be; Doth the morning come forth from a birthplace of gladness? Is there peace, is there rest, in thine empire or thee?"

"Free, thou sayest,—dream'st thou how? Loathing wouldst thou shun dismay'd Freedom by such ransom paid. —Girl, for thee I'll lay aside Veil of smiles and mask of pride; Shrowds that only ask of Fate Not to seem so desolate. —I am young,—but Age's snow Hides not colder depths below ..."

"I'm weary, I'm weary,—this cold world of ours; I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers. . . . . I'm weary, I'm weary,—I'm off with the wind: Can I find a worse fate than the one left behind?"

"'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel, Far better had'st thou proved; Ev'n I could almost pity feel, For thou art not beloved."

"Oh never another dream can be Like that early dream of ours, When the fairy Hope lay down to sleep, Like a child, among the flowers."

"The woman was in abject misery—that worst of poverty, which is haunted by shame—the only relic left by better days. She shrunk from all efforts at recovery, refused to administer the medicines, and spoke of the child's death but as a blessing. My God! and is the daily page of life Darken'd with wretchedness like this?"

"Are we not like that actor of old time, Who wore his mask so long his face took Its likeness?"

"In this our social state, where petty cares And mercenary interests only look Upon the present's littleness, and shrink From the bold future, and the stately past,—"

"For wishes are effectual but by will, And that too much is impotent and void In frail humanity; and time steals by Sinful and wavering, and unredeem'd."

"Who shall say The love of genius is a common thing, Such as the many feel—half selfishness, Half vanity?—for genius is divine, And, like a god, doth turn its dwelling-place Into a temple; and the heart redeem'd By its fine influence is immortal shrine For love's divinity."

"Alas! We give our destiny from our own hands, And trust to those most frail of all frail things, The chances of humanity."

"Well, read my cheek, and watch my eye,— Too strictly school'd are they, One secret of my soul to show, One hidden thought betray."

"I have such eagerness of hope To benefit my kind; And feel as if immortal power Were given to my mind."

"But song has touch'd my lips with fire, And made my heart a shrine; For what, although alloy'd, debased, Is in itself divine."

"Let music make less terrible The silence of the dead; I care not, so my spirit last Long after life has fled."

"And this is the sum of our mortal state, The hopes we number,— Feverish waking, danger, death, And listless slumber."

"Another year, another year,— Alas! and must it be That Time's most dark and weary wheel Must turn again for me?"

"My tears are buried in my heart, Like cave-locked fountains sleeping."

"I would give worlds, could I believe One-half that is profess'd me; Affection! could I think it Thee, When Flattery has caress'd me."

"It is a humbling thing to human pride to observe that strength of mind does not preserve its possessor from indulging any favourite delusion; but that this very strength gives its own force to the belief."

"For a discussion of some of the contents of this significant cultural volume, see Adriana Craciun, ‘Fatal Women of Romanticism’, Cambridge University Press, 2004, page 204. The section ‘The Enchantress’ here begins by describing that first story as a ‘self-consciously Byronic text’ that ‘develops a Promethean, distinctly Luciferian model of poetic identity and self-creation’."

"Water—the mighty, the pure, the beautiful, the unfathomable—where is thy element so glorious as it is in thine own domain, the deep seas ? What an infinity of power is in the far Atlantic, the boundary of two separate worlds, apart like those of memory and of hope ! or in the bright Pacific, whose tides are turned to gold by a southern sun, and in whose bosom sleep a thousand isles, each covered with the verdure, the flowers, and the fruit of Eden ! But, amid all thy hereditary kingdoms, to which hast thou given beauty, as a birthright, lavishly as thou hast to thy favourite Mediterranean ? The silence of a summer night is now sleeping on its bosom, where the bright stars are mirrored, as if in its depths they had another home and another heaven. A spirit, cleaving air midway between the two, might have paused to ask which was sea, and which was sky. The shadows of earth and earthly things, resting omen-like upon the waters, alone shewed which was the home and which the mirror of the celestial host."

"We step not over the threshold of childhood till led by Love"

"Strange, that ignorance should be our best happiness in this life, and yet be the one we are ever striving to destroy !"

"The weakness of our nature—how soon any strong emotion masters it !"

"I had lost of humanity but its illusions, and they alone are what render it supportable."

"Truly, night was made for sleep; since to its wakeful hours belongs an oppression unknown to the very dreariest hours of day. The stillness is so deep, the solitude so unbroken, the fever brought on by want of rest so weakens the nerves, that the imagination exercises despotic and unwholesome power, till, if the heart have a fear or a sorrow, up it arises in all the force and terror of gigantic exaggeration."

"For when do friends not delight in the sorrow of the prosperous?"

"He who seeks pleasure with reference to himself, not others, will ever find that pleasure is only another name for discontent."

"In sad truth, half our forebodings of our neighbours are but our own wishes, which we are ashamed to utter in any other form."

"How often will the lip frame some indifferent question, when the heart is full of the most important!"