First Quote Added
4월 10, 2026
Latest Quote Added
"Do you see yon vessel riding, Anchored in our island bay, Like a sleeping sea-bird biding For the morrow’s onward way ? See her white wings folded round her As she rocks upon the deep; Slumber with a spell hath bound her, With a spell of peace and sleep."
"The mother takes her little child— Its face is like her own ; The cradle of her choice is wild— Why is it left alone ? The trampling of the buffalo Is heard among the reeds, And sweeps around the carrion-crow That amid carnage feeds."
"Pause, ere we blame the savage code That such strange horror keeps; Perhaps within her sad abode The mother sits and weeps, And thinks how oft those eyelids smiled, Whose close she may not see, And says, "Oh, would to God, my child, I might have died for thee !""
"Look on the crowded prison-gate— Instructive love and care In early life had saved the fate That waits on many there. Cold, selfish, shunning care and cost, The poor are left unknown ; I say, for every soul thus lost, We answer with our own."
"In the deep silence of the midnight hours, I call upon ye, oh ye viewless powers! Before whose presence mortal daring cowers."
"What of yon stately city, where are shrined The warrior’s and the poet’s wreath combined— All the high honours of the human mind! Her walls are bright with colours, whose fine dyes Embody shapes that seem from yonder skies, And in her scrolls the world’s deep wisdom lies. What of her future?—Through the silvery smoke I see the distant vision I invoke. These glorious walls have bowed to time’s dark yoke. I see a plain of desert sand extend Scattered with ruins, where the wild flowers bend, And the green ivy, like a last sad friend."
"Hence, ye dark Spirits! bear the dream away; To-morrow but repeateth yesterday; First, toil—then, desolation and decay. Life has one vast stern likeness in its gloom, We toil with hopes that must themselves consume— The wide world round us is one mighty tomb."
"I see the bright trout springing, Where the wave is dark yet clear, And a myriad flies are winging, As if to tempt him near. With the lucid waters blending, The willow shade yet floats, From beneath whose quiet bending I used to launch my boats."
"O, Lovely isle ! that, like a child, Art sleeping on the sea, Amid whose hair the wind is wild, And on whose cheek the sun has smiled, As there it loved to be."
"It is his hand—it is his words— Too well I know the scroll, Whose style, whose order, and whose shape Are treasured in my soul."
"A fearful thing, the granted wish— The very shape it takes, By some strange mockery of our hope, Another misery makes."
"Time measures many hours ; for me, He measured long and slow; I thought the night would never end, The day would never go."
"They come from the mountains, in thousands they come— There breatheth no trumpet, there beateth no drum: They march in such silence as suiteth the dead, Their herald the thunder that echoes their tread. The sun is midway in his morning advance, His beams kindle musket, and sabre, and lance; While beneath each white turban flows down the long hair; For the locks of the Druse are, like northern locks, fair."
"The falling of fountains—the slight summer rain— The voice of the dove, were less sweet than thy strain; Till stirred with delight, would her exquisite wings Beat time on the west wind, to echo thy strings."
"So like they are—as roses grow Self-same upon the self-same bough, While just some slight shades intervene, To mark a change more felt than seen— As like they are—as nature loth To make a difference, modelled both To the same shape—it was so fair That not a grace was left to spare."
"It is the past that maketh the ideal, Kindling the future with its onward ray, And o’er a world that else would be too real, Flinging the glory of the moral day."
"On the wind a murmur, Seems to float along, Soft as is the music Of remembered song. Bringing at the moment All that dwelt apart In the lone recesses Of the haunted heart. So upon her twilight wings Memory beareth graceful things, From the tales Arabian, From the old Arabian Nights."
"A thousand nameless years went by, As silent as their birth; The clouds that wandered o’er the sky Beheld no change on earth: With one unbroken chronicle, A thousand years left nought to tell."
"But here no tumult ever past, The wild wind brought no sound, Saving the mighty music cast By the dark pine-trees round; And Nature had one hour’s repose Amid the silence of the snows."
"During a considerable part of the year, the Choor is hoary with snow; and when moonlight falls upon the scene, an effect is produced as if floods of molten silver were poured over the surface. Moonlight in these regions assumes a novel charm. The rugged peaks, stern and chilling as they are, lose their awful character, and become brilliant as polished pearl; the trees, covered with icicles, seem formed of some rich spar; and the face of nature becoming wholly changed, presents the features of a world calm and tranquil, but still and deathlike. (Letitia Landon may have her friend Emma Roberts to thank for details of this description)"
"’Tis strange how often early years Will unexpected rise, And bring back soft and childlike tears To cold and world-worn eyes. Soft voices come upon the wind, Old songs and early prayers, And feel how much of good and kind Our weary life still spares."
"The day is yet rosy with wakening from sleep, The stars have one moment gone down in the deep, The flowers have not opened that hide in the grass, And the hares leave their print in the dew as they pass."
"Hope’s fairy arches cross human life’s dark river; Frail the support—while over it there hastens All the sweet beliefs that make the morning fair."
"Oh ! there are moments when the full heart, turning From this life, insufficient, vexed, and drear, Looks to the skies with an impatient yearning, And asks the morning for another sphere."
"Methinks a pleasant lesson Is given by the scene— That age alike and childhood Delight in what has been. They will make, those happy children, The old man’s heart their own— There never was a pleasure Could be enjoyed alone."
"What makes the poet? — Nothing but to feel More keenly than the common sense of feeling; To have the soul attuned to the appeal Of the dim music through all nature stealing."
"Life is a fable, with its lesson last ; Genius, too, has its fable and its moral: Of all the trees that down their shadows cast, Choose you a wreath from any but the laurel."
"Thy angel-nature was not made For struggle or for care; Thou wert too gentle and too good For Heaven long to spare. Thou wert but sent a little while To soothe and to sustain; The angels missed thee from their band And asked for thee again: But not till thou hadst given birth To many a holy thought on earth."
"Years have grown into centuries grey, The king and his people, where are they? Where are the temples of carved stone? Look in the dust—to dust they are gone. Five or six pillars alone remain Of the thousands that crowded that marble plain. The palm-tree that stood by that building of yore Standeth as green as it did before. But the dust is heaped o’er the works of men— And so it hath been, and will be again."
"There is a lovely English sound Upon the English air, It comes when else had silence found Its quiet empire there."
"How still it is ! the bee — the bird — Float by on noiseless wing. There sounds no step — there comes no word, There seems no living thing. But still upon the soft west wind These bells come sweeping by, Leaving familiar thoughts behind, Familiar, and yet high."
"Men gathered fast upon the sands With eager aid—in vain— What is might of human hands To struggle with the main?"
"Hamooda holds a feast to-night — Fill ye the lamps with fragrant light ; Burn, in the twilight's dewy time, The mastic, rosemary, and thyme; And scatter round the festal chamber Oils from the rose, the musk, the amber."
"It is a fearful thing to live, yet be That which is scarcely life — the spirit fled — Death at the heart — our nobler self is dead — The reasoning and responsible, while we Live, like the birds around, unconsciously. God ! in thy mercy keep us from such doom, Let not our mind precede us to our tomb !"
"Too much this weary world of ours Has fallen since the fall ; And low desires, and care, and crime. Hold empire over all. Yet not the less it is our part To do the best we can : A better faith — a better fate Man yet may work for man."
"Stately rose their city — Many towns are fair, None rose like Granada In the morning air. There the Moorish princes swayed Empire which themselves had made. Like a dream their memory dwells Where the carved marble tells Of the Moslem rule in Spain."
"Honoured be each story Brought from other days, But for them there were no flowers On our world-worn ways. Every land, and every heart, Turn back to their earlier part. Let old songs and stories live While the fanciful they give To the Moslem rule in Spain."
"Too much by small low interests bound. We track our selfish way, Careless if hope to-day still takes Its tone from yesterday. We look upon our daily path, We do not look beyond, Forgetful of the brotherhood In nature's mighty bond."
"The future doth avenge the past— Now, for thy future's sake, Oh, England ! for the guilty past A deep atonement make. The slave is given to thy charge, He hopes from thee alone ; And thou, for every soul so given, Must answer with thine own."
"The winds are stirred with tumult — on the air Sound drum and trumpet, atabal and gong — Strong voices loud uplift a barbarous song. Vast is the gathering — while the priests declare The seven-headed god is passing there. On roll his chariot-wheels, while every roll From prostrate bodies crushes forth a soul : Rejoicing such last agony to bear."
"It is a little azure bird, It has a plaintive cry, It singeth mournful to the eve, When none beside are nigh. …. And for the love it beareth them, The natives hold it true, That whosoever kills this bird, Himself must perish too."
"Of the vacant temple Little now remains, Lowly are the statues, Lowly are the fanes, Filled with worshippers no more. Heavily the creeper Traces its green line Round the fallen altar, Now no more divine— As it was in days of yore, In the days of stately Carthage, The ocean’s earliest queen. …. Empire still has followed The revolving sun; Earth’s great onward progress In the East begun— Ruins, deserts, now are there. Downfall waits on triumph: Is such fate in store For our glorious islands? Will our English shore Lie as desolate and bare As the shores of fallen Carthage, The ocean’s former queen?"
"When I see Homes, of Beauty and of Splendour, I, that am merely rich in being loved, By one whose wealth is in a heart too tender, To let me share his poverty unmoved: Sighing, I marvel, what such chance of fortune, Can add too happiness, or take away; And whether all the cloying gifts, importune, Or bless the wealthy, through the livelong day!"