Letitia Elizabeth Landon Quotes
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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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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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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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Oh, where is there the heart but knowsLove's first steps are upon the rose!
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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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Cradle of Letters ! Mistress of the World !Soil of the Sun ! Italia! I salute thee !How oft the human race have worn thy yoke.The vessels of thine arms, thine arts, thy sky !
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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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By turns the woman and the queen,And each as the other had never been.
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-the unpunished crime is never regretted. We weep over the consequence, not over the fault.
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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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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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There is no denying the fact, that in all sudden emergencies a woman has ten times the presence of mind, or, to use the common expression, her wits more about her than a man.
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The discharge of a duty from affection is the best solace for sorrow.
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Cecil Forrester was heir to many misfortunes, being handsome, rich, high-born, and clever.
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I LOVED her! ay, I would have givenA death-bed certainty of heavenIf I had thought it could conferThe least of happiness on her!
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Pure as the snow the summer sunNever at noon hath look'd upon, -Deep, as is the diamond wave,Hidden in the desart cave, -Changeless, as the greenest leavesOf the wreath the cypress weaves, -Hopeless, often, when most fond,Without hope or fear beyondIts own pale fidelity, -And this woman's love can be!
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'There is a steep and lofty wall,Where my warders trembling stand,He who at speed shall ride round its height,For him shall be my hand.'
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From Cesario
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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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Never, dear father, love can be,Like the dear love I had for thee!
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Beautiful language! Love's peculiar, own,But only to the spring and summer known.
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Philosophers are moral, and poets are picturesque about the country.
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How sweet on the breeze of the evening swellsThe vesper call of those soothing bells,Borne softly and dying in echoes away,Like a requiem sung to the parting day.
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How strong is the love of the country in all indwellers of towns !