Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Something there is moves me to love, and I Do know I love, but know not how, nor why.
Trust not yourself, but your defects to know, make use of every friend and every foe.
Let such teach others who themselves excel, And censure freely who have written well.
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart
Honor and shame from no condition rise. Act well your part: there all the honor lies.
But if you'll prosper, mark what I advise, Whom age, and long experience render wise.
For thee I dim these eye and stuff this head With all such reading as was never read.
Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; My footstool earth, my canopy the skies.
Who builds a church to God and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.
Who shall decide when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?
A wise physician, skill'd our wounds to heal, is more than armies to the public weal.
Sickness is a sort of early old age; it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state.
A perfect judge will read each word of wit with the same spirit that its author writ.
Blest paper-credit! last and best supply! That lends corruption lighter wings to fly!
And all who told it added something new, and all who heard it, made enlargements too.
Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.
Hear how the birds, on ev'ry blooming spray, With joyous musick wake the dawning day.
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust.
Who sees pale Mammom pine amidst his store, Sees but a backward steward for the poor.
For he lives twice who can at once employ, The present well, and e'en the past enjoy.
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.
Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
Of what use is the memory of facts, if not to serve as an example of good or of evil?
I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death.
Jewels five-words-long, That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever.
Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come, whispering, 'It will be happier.'
Every life is meant to help all lives; each man should live for all men's betterment.
I really believe, or want to believe, really I am nuts, otherwise I'll never be sane.
I want to be a saint, a real saint while I am young, for there is so much work to do.
Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
When you get over the anxiety, you discover you should have been mad a long time ago.
Women who are inclined to write poetry at all are inspired by being mad at something.
If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
Self-preservation, nature's first great law, all the creatures, except man, doth awe.
More people are reading poetry now than at any time in the history of the human race.
My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
We have learned the answers, all the answers: it is the question that we do not know.
We don't rise to the level of our expectations, we fall to the level of our training.
The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.
The Poet's leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.
Everyone chases after happiness, not noticing that happiness is right at their heels.
But my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod, ready for the next arrow.
My heart/ is whatever temperature a heart is/ in a man who doesn't believe in heaven.
In every generation there has to be some fool who will speak the truth as he sees it.
The composers hated me. The singers detested me. The guitarists were terrified by me.
To certain people there comes a day when they must say the great Yes or the great No.
What shall become of us without any barbarians? Those people were a kind of solution.
Here sleeps Saon, of Acanthus, son of Dicon, a holy sleep: say not that the good die.
Stop wishing to merit anyone's gratitude or thinking that anyone can become grateful.