TuesdayJun 09, 2026
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
And he who gives a child a treat Makes joy-bells ring in Heavens street, And he who gives a child a home Builds palaces in Kingdom come, And she who gives a baby birth Brings Saviour Christ again to Earth.
Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die.
The hours that make us happy make us wise.
Since the printing press came into being, poetry has ceased to be the delight of the whole community of man; it has become the amusement and delight of the few.
Success is the brand on the brow of a man who has aimed too low.
His face was filled with broken commandments.
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smokestack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road rail, pig lead, Firewood, ironware, and cheap tin trays.
But he has gone, A nations memory and veneration, Among the radiant, ever venturing on, Somewhere, with morning, as such spirits will.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a gray mist on the sea's face and a gray dawn breaking.
The days that make us happy make us wise.
What am I, Life? A thing of watery salt Held in cohesion by unresting cells, Which work they know not why, which never halt, Myself unwitting where their Master dwells?
Life is a long headache in a noisy street.
Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have.
Once in a century a man may be ruined or made insufferable by praise. But surely once in a minute something generous dies for want of it.
In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.
It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.
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