Letitia Elizabeth Landon Quotes
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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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The fearless make their own way.
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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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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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From Lee, a dramatist: Ah! the poet hath no true hope, who doth not place it in the many, and in the feeling of the common multitude.
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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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Oh, where is there the heart but knowsLove's first steps are upon the rose!
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The city and the crowd unidealise love; and love, in the young warm heart of a girl, should be a dream apart from all commoner emotions - as sweet and as ethereal as the blush with which it is born and dies. Beauty gives its own gracefulness to love - there must be romance blended with the passion inspired by the very lovely face which the mirror reflected.
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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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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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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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Ill-timed admiration is enough to enrage a saint.
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By turns the woman and the queen,And each as the other had never been.
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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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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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What is the reason that we find it so satisfactory to make excuses to ourselves-the only persons in the world to whom they must be altogether needless ?
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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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What a mistake rage is ! anger should never go beyond a sneer, if it really desires revenge.
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Alas! that every lovely thingLives only but for withering,-That spring rainbows and summer shineEnd but in autumn's pale decline.
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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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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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-the unpunished crime is never regretted. We weep over the consequence, not over the fault.
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From Cesario
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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.