Quote: All human history attests That happiness for man, the hungry sinner! Â...

'Tis very certain the desire of life prolongs it.

O'er the glad water of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, Survey our empire, and behold our home!

Fame is the thirst of youth.

Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; But not too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes; Disguise even tenderness, if thou art wise.

Of Wordsworth: Who, both by precept and example, shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.

Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest!

Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.

Ready money is Aladdin's lamp.

In solitude, where we are least alone.

The power of Thought, the magic of the Mind!

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, that host on the morrow lay withered and strewn!

The beings of the mind are not of clay; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray And more beloved existence.

O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

If from society we learn to live, it is solitude should teach us how to die.

Our life is two fold: Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.

Physicians mend or end us; But though in health we sneer, when sick we call them to attend us, without the least propensity to jeer.

The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, And for the bass, the beast can only bellow; In fact, he had no singing education, An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow.

The morn is up again, the dewy morn, with breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And glowing into day.

Let none think to fly the danger For soon or late love is his own avenger.

Ships, wealth, general confidence, - All were his; He counted them at break of day, And when the sun set! where were they.

Think you, if Laura had been Petrach's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?

We learn from Horace, 'Homer sometimes sleeps'; We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes.

What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, Is much more common where the climate's sultry.

Whether it was she did not see, or would not, Or, like all very clever people, could not.

There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.

I feel my immortality over sweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, - and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears, this truth, - thou livest forever!

That all-softening, overpowering knell, The tocsin of the soul - the dinner bell.

Friendship is Love without his wings!

He who is only just is cruel. Who on earth could live were all judged justly?

A lady of a 'certain age', which means - Certainly aged.

Smiles form the channel of a future tear.

So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.

He who ascends to mountain tops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind, Must look down on the hate of those below.

Suspicion is a heavy armor, And with its own weight impedes more than protects.

The beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And the only healer when the heart hath bled.

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda water the day after.

For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast.

Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence.

There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears: Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

A being more intense, that we endow With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image.

Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth; whilst on the surface of this world, All things are weighed by the false scale of custom.

Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; And Life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

To have joy one must share it. Happiness was born a twin.

Through life's road, so dim and dirty, I have dragged to three and thirty; What have these years left to me? Nothing, except thirty-three.

While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand: When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls - the World.

What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life - the demon Thought.

They truly mourn that mourn without a witness.

Fare thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well.

The tree of knowledge is not that of life.

For in that word, that fatal word, however we promise, hope, believe, there breathes despair.

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind.

The madmen who have made men mad By their contagion; Conquerors and Kings, Founders of sects and systems.

Since my young days of passion - joy or pain Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string - And both may jar.

He, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday.

Though fame is smoke, its fumes are frankincense to human thoughts.

Father! no prophet's laws I seek, - Thy laws in Nature's works appear; - I own myself corrupt and weak, Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear.

Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but The truth in masquerade.

Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire With angels shared, by Allah given To lift from earth our low desire.

Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess, The might - the majesty of Loveliness?

Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch.

All comedies are ended by a marriage.

When we two parted in silence and tears, Half broken-hearted to sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold sorrow to this!

Adversity is the first path to truth.

I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

Knowledge is not happiness, and science but an exchange of ignorance for that which is another kind of ignorance.

What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth as I am now.

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, should let itself be snuffed out by an article.

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, and yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there.

Adieu! adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, 'I told you so.'

The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,Â—too many, yet how few!

Good but rarely comes from good advice.

I am ashes where once I was fire.

With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth Â— sea alike Â— our world within our arms.

All tenantless, save to the crannying wind.

The Ariosto of the North.

Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.

There were his young barbarians all at play; There was their Dacian mother: he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday!

Battle's magnificently stern array.

'Darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,' As some one somewhere sings about the sky.

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell. But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.

'T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in't.

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred.

The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine.

The lapse of ages changes all things --time, language, the earth, the bounds of the sea, the stars of the sky, and every thing 'about, around, and underneath' man, except man himself.

Coop'd in their winged, sea-girt citadel.

The French courage proceeds from vanity Â— the German from phlegm Â— the Turkish from fanaticism & opium Â— the Spanish from pride Â— the English from coolness Â— the Dutch from obstinacy Â— the Russian from insensibility Â— but the Italian from anger.

Seek roses in December, ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or any other thing that 's false, before You trust in critics.

As soon Seek roses in DecemberÂ—ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or an other thing thatÂ’s false, before You trust in critics, who themselves are sore.

The mighty master of unmeaning rhyme. [Darwin]

Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it?Â—No! 't was but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street. On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.

So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.

Tully was not so eloquent as thou, Thou nameless column with the buried base.

He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below.

Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.

I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?

Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year.

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!

Then farewell Horace, whom I hated so,Â— Not for thy faults, but mine.

There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.

... the art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest, and the stupidest of pretended sports.

The nympholepsy of some fond despair.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?

I'll publish right or wrong. Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind.

The starry Galileo with his woes.

When Newton saw an apple fall, he found ... A mode of proving that the earth turnd round In a most natural whirl, called gravitation; And thus is the sole mortal who could grapple Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple.

All human history attests That happiness for man, the hungry sinner! Â– Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.

Heaven gives its favouritesÂ—early death.

I am as a weed Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.

And there was mounting in hot haste.

The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh

Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.

Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

All is concentr'd in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being.

ManÂ’s love is of manÂ’s life a thing apart, Â‘Tis womanÂ’s whole existence.

I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week.

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.

Let us have Wine and Women, Mirth and Laughter Sermons and soda-water the day after.

With just enough of learning to misquote.

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if we have ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres.

There is a rapture on the lonely shore ... By the deep sea, and music in its roar.

The Niobe of nations! there she stands.

Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.

Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, tillÂ—'t is gone, and all is gray.

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

Perverts the Prophets and purloins the Psalms.

The petrifactions of a plodding brain.

A quiet conscience makes one so serene.

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

One of the pleasures of reading old letters is the knowledge that they need no answer.

There is something Pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone.

'While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome fallsÂ—the world.'

ThereÂ’s nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms As rum and true religion.

They never fail who die in a great cause.

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer.

The poetry of speech.

The sky is changed,Â—and such a change! O night And storm and darkness! ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder.

What men call gallantry and gods adultery, Is much more common where the climate's sultry.

What say you to such a supper with such a woman?

Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.

The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.

Words are things, and a small drop if ink, Falling like dew upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

The great art of life is the sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state: An hour may lay it in the dust.

Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,Â— Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.

Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore.

But first on earth as vampire sent Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent. Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race.

Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.

Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.

But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.

War, war is still the cry,Â—'war even to the knife!'

The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, And boil in endless torture.

When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years.

Where'er we tread, 't is haunted, holy ground.

Or whispering with white lips, 'The foe! They come! they come!'

Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

All who would win joy, must share it; happiness was born a twin.

With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story.

ThereÂ’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.

Years steal Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb, And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert.

Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.

Fills The air around with beauty.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.

Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.

He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.

He rush'd into the field, and foremost fighting fell.

He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.

Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not, Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?

History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me.

I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture.

I only know we loved in vain; I only feelÂ—farewell! farewell!

I see before me the gladiator lie.

I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour; my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England; if false, England was unfit for me.

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!

Land of lost gods and godlike men.

Let these describe the undescribable.

Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart!

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.

Might shake the saintship of an anchorite.

My native land, good night!

None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.

O Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land.

O Rome! my country! city of the soul!

Oh, Amos Cottle! Phoebus! what a name!

Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo, The octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister, William Knox. 1789-1825.

Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

On the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.

Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider.

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