Letitia Elizabeth Landon Quotes
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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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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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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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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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'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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During slumber's magic reignOther times shall live again;
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-the unpunished crime is never regretted. We weep over the consequence, not over the fault.
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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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They say gravity is the centre of attraction ; I rather think that noise is. Nothing so soon assembles the inhabitants of a house as a loud and sudden noise : …
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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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There is a favourite in every family; and, generally speaking, that favourite is the most troublesome member in it.
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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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This volume was written for children. Miss Landon set out its purpose in the preface.
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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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I dreamed a dream, that I had flung a chainOf roses around Love,-I woke, and foundI had chained Sorrow.
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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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By turns the woman and the queen,And each as the other had never been.
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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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The fearless make their own way.
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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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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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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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Cecil Forrester was heir to many misfortunes, being handsome, rich, high-born, and clever.
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From Arrezi