Letitia Elizabeth Landon Quotes
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I know a lovely little flower, a flower for which I pine -I would go gather it, but bars my heavy hours confine;Oh, grief, when free, how easily that little flower was mine !. . .Oh, were I sinking to the grave I often ask in vain,And welcome Death stood by to loose the wasted captive's chain - Ah, name me the Forget-me-not, I'd wake to life again!
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For his was now the loveliest partOf the young poet's life, when first,In solitude and silence nurst,His genius rises like a springUnnoticed in its wandering;Ere winter cloud or summer rayHave chill'd, or wasted it away,
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It is the mistake of a coxcomb, whose experience of affection is all to come-if it ever comes-to say that women are won by mere good looks. Though it does not owe its birth to them. Gratitude and Vanity are the nurses that rock the cradle of Love.
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What a falsehood it is to say that genius and industry are incompatible ! Does one work of genius exist that has not also been a work of labour ?
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Alas! for him whose youthful fireIs vowed and wasted on the lyre,-Alas! for him who shall essay,The laurel's long and dreary way!Mocking will greet, neglect will chillHis spirit's gush, his bosom's thrill;And, worst of all, that heartless praiseEchoed from what another says.
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English people ... never speak, excepting in cases of fire or murder, unless they are introduced.
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Death never excites such sympathy as it does when it assumes the shape of murder.
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Now, bitter, but useful, mortification is the steppingstone to knowledge, even in a child.
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The cold north wind which bows to earthThe lightness of the willow's birthBends not the mountain cedar trees;Folding their branches from the breeze,They stand as if they could defyThe utmost rage of storm and sky.
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The Little Boy’s Bed-Time See under Translations
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The startled terror of remorse that dares not think of what it fears, is as inconsistent as all other human feelings.
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Charles went towards the table, but he had no lady-like powers of filling four sheets with nothing, and the letter was soon sealed.
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'Tis strange with how much power and prideThe softness is of love allied;How much of power to force the breastTo be in outward show at rest,-How much of pride that never eyeMay look upon its agony!Ah! little will the lip revealOf all the burning heart can feel.
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There is an indolence in griefWhich will not even seek relief. What is the toil, or care, or pain,The human heart cannot sustain?Enough if struggling can createA change or colour in our fate;But where's the spirit that can copeWith listless suffering, when hope,The last of misery's allies,Sickens of its sweet self, and dies.
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Now, a fancy ball is bad enough in London, where milliners are many, and where theatres have costumes that may be borrowed or copied ; but in the country, where people are left to their own devices-truly to them may be applied the old poet's account of murderers, 'their fancies are all frightful.'
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Its berries are red as a maiden's lip,Its leaves are of changeless green ;And any thing changeless now, I wis,Is somewhat rare to be seen.The holly, which fall and frost has borne,The holly's the wreath for a Christmas morn.
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It matters not its history; love has wingsLike lightning , swift and fatal, and it springsLike a wild flower where it is least expected,Existing whether cherish'd or rejected;
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TO-MORROW, to-morrow, thou loveliest May,To-morrow will rise up thy first-born day;Bride of the summer, child of the spring,To-morrow the year will its favourite bring:
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Distinction is purchased at the expense of sympathy
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No one can say farewell with indifference.
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Sympathy is the surest destruction of selfishness. Children, like the grown person, grow the better for participation in the sufferings where their own only share is pity.
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Oh! why should woman ever love,Trusting to one false star above;And fling her little chance awayOf sunshine for its treacherous ray.
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It is a fact not to be disputed, that the aristocracy have not 'progressed ' in proportion to the other classes. A young nobleman of the present day has not a better education than his ancestor in the time of Elizabeth.
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Autumn was falling, but the pineSeem'd as it mock'd all change; no signOf season on its leaf was seen,The same dark gloom of changeless green.But like the gorgeous Persian bands'Mid the stern race of northern lands,The chesnut boughs were bright with allThat gilds and mocks the autumn's fall.