Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
A stray hair, by its continued irritation, may give more annoyance than a smart blow.
Love lives on, and hath a power to bless when they who loved are hidden in the grave.
How many wells of science there are in whose depths there is nothing but clear water!
Another life, if it were not better than this, would be less a promise than a threat.
What uniform can I wear to hide my heavy heart? It is too heavy. It will always show.
An original artist is unable to copy. So he has only to copy in order to be original.
Artists can no more speak about their work, than plants can speak about horticulture.
If every man works at that for which nature fitted him, the cows will be well tended.
I have lived life long enough to thank God that all my prayers have not been answered
People newly emerged from obscurity generally launch out into indiscriminate display.
Come on, a 25-page digression on god? You can’t have that kind of thing, cut it out!”
Teaching has given me a community that cares about poetry, and I'm grateful for that.
Words of affection, howsoe'er expressed, The latest spoken still are deem'd the best.
Merciful Father, I will not complain. I know that the sunshine shall follow the rain.
Let none turn over books, or roam the stars in quest of God, who sees him not in man.
Strange that cowards cannot see that their greatest safety lies in dauntless courage.
He whose pride oppresses the humble may perhaps be humbled, but will never be humble.
The wrath that on conviction subsides into mildness, is the wrath of a generous mind.
To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
Two daiquiris withdrew into a corner of a gorgeous room and one told the other a lie.
Oh! full Surrey twilight! importunate band! Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!
Too late we learn, a man must hold his friend Unjudged, accepted, trusted to the end.
Who fears not to do ill fears the name, And free from conscience, is a slave to fame.
I long to talk with some old lover's ghost, Who died before the god of love was born.
The thought of being nothing after death is a burden insupportable to a virtuous man.
Plots, true or false, are necessary things, To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings.
An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
But 'tis the talent of our English nation, Still to be plotting some new reformation.
I trade both with the living and the dead, for the enrichment of our native language.
Government itself at length must fall To nature's state, where all have right to all.
'T is woman that seduces all mankind; By her we first were taught the wheedling arts.
His daily prayer, far better understood in acts than in words, was simply doing good.
Beauty is truth, truth beauty,-that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
The teachers of our law, and to propose What might improve my knowledge or their own.
As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
None can love freedom heartily, but good men; the rest love not freedom, but license.
I hate when vice can bolt her arguments, And virtue has no tongue to check her pride.
Our state cannot be severed, we are one, One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.
A grateful mind/ By owing owes not, but still pays, at once/ Indebted and discharg'd.
The timely dew of sleep Now falling with soft slumb'rous weight inclines Our eyelids.
None can love freedom heartily, but good men; the rest love not freedom, but licence.
The mind is its own place and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
Perhaps the enemies of liberty are such only because they judge it by its loud voice.
Poetry is rather an approach to things, to life, than it is typographical production.
Poetry seems to be the only weapon able to beat language, using language's own means.
I believe that poets have to be inside their poems somewhere, or the poem won't work.