Letitia Elizabeth Landon Quotes
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Oh, love is timid in its birth!Watching her lightest look or stir,As he but look'd and breathed with her.Gay words were passing, but he leantIn silence; yet, one quick glance sent,-His secret is no more his own,When has woman her power not known?
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Deceit is this world's passport: who would dare,However pure the breast, to lay it bare?
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Oh, where is there the heart but knowsLove's first steps are upon the rose!
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There is a favourite in every family; and, generally speaking, that favourite is the most troublesome member in it.
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Human nature is accused of much more selfishness than it really has ; a thousand kindly emotions break in upon and redeem our daily and interested life.
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But as our explanation will be more brief than one broken in upon by words of wonder, regret, and affection, we will proceed to it ; holding that explanation, like advice, should be of all convenient shortness.
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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.
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I am a daughter of that land,Where the poet’s lip and the painter’s handAre most divine, -where the earth and sky,Are picture both and poetry-I am of Florence.
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This volume was written for children. Miss Landon set out its purpose in the preface.
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Where is the heart that has not bow'dA slave, eternal Love, to thee:Look on the cold, the gay, the proud,And is there one among them free?
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If we did but know how we rush into one evil while seeking to avoid another, we should have no resolution to shun any thing.
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'Tis strange how the heart can createOr colour from itself its fate;We make ourselves our own distress,We are ourselves our happiness.
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By turns the woman and the queen,And each as the other had never been.
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The dying chief sprang to his knee,And the staunch'd wounds well'd fearfully;But his gash'd arm, what is it now?Livid his lip, and black his brow,While over him the slayer stood,As if he almost scorn'd the bloodThat cost so little to be won,-He strikes,-the work of death is done!
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Good and evil ! good and evil ! ye are mingled inextricably in the web of our being ; and who may unthread the darker yarn ?
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During slumber's magic reignOther times shall live again;
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He fell as other thousands do,Trampled down where they fall,While on a single name is heap'dThe glory gain'd by all.Yet even he whose common graveLies in the open fields,Died not without a thought of allThe joy that glory yields.
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Oh this is not that sweet loveOwn companion to the dove ;But a wild and wandering thing,Varying as the lights that flingRadiance o'er his peacock's wing.I do weep, that Love should beEver linked with Vanity.
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The fearless make their own way.
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-the unpunished crime is never regretted. We weep over the consequence, not over the fault.
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Ill-timed admiration is enough to enrage a saint.
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Now out upon you, Christmas !Is this the merry time When the red hearth blazed, the harper sung,And the bells rung their glorious chime ? . . .
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Oh, she had yet the task to learnHow often woman's heart must turnTo feed upon its own excessOf deep yet passionate tenderness!How much of grief the heart must proveThat yields a sanctuary to love!
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Oh! what is memory but a giftWithin a ruin'd temple left,Recalling what its beauties were,And then presenting what they are.