English Poet and Prose Writer
Walter Savage Landor
English Poet and Prose Writer
Of all studies, the most delightful and the most useful is biography. The seeds of great events lie near the surface; historians delve too deep for them. No history was ever true. Lives I have read which, if they were not, had the appearance, the interest, and the utility of truth.
A smile is ever the most bright and beautiful with a tear upon it. What is the dawn without the dew? The tear is rendered by the smile precious above the smile itself.
As we sometimes find one thing while we are looking for another, so, if truth escaped me, happiness and contentment fell in my way.
Cruelty is the highest pleasure to the cruel man; it is his love.
Friendships are the purer and the more ardent, the nearer they come to the presence of God, the Sun not only of righteousness but of love.
I am heartily glad to witness your veneration for a book which to say nothing of its holiness or authority, contains more specimens of genius and taste than any other volume in existence.
It appears to be among the laws of nature, that the mighty of intellect should be pursued and carped by the little, as the solitary flight of one great bird is followed by the twittering petulance of many smaller.
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; my fingers ache, my lips are dry: oh! if you felt the pain I feel! But oh, who ever felt as I? No longer could I doubt him true; all other men may use deceit: he always said my eyes were blue, and often swore my lips were sweet.
Old trees in their living state are the only things that money cannot command.
Be always displeased at what thou art, if thou desire to attain to what thou art not; for where thou hast pleased thyself, there thou abidest.
Cruelty, if we consider it as a crime, is the greatest of all; if we consider it as a madness, we are equally justifiable in applying to it the readiest and the surest means of oppression.
From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass like little ripples down a sunny river; your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.
I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson, come and share my haunch of venison. I have too a bin of claret, good, but better when you share it. Tho' 'tis only a small bin, there's a stock of it within. And as sure as I'm a rhymer, half a butt of Rudeheimer. Come; among the sons of men is one welcomer than Alfred Tennyson?
It is delightful to kiss the eyelashes of the beloved--is it not? But never so delightful as when fresh tears are on them.
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; my fingers ache, my lips are dry:
On An Eclipse Of The Moon - Struggling, and faint, and fainter didst thou wane, O Moon! and round thee all thy starry train came forth to help thee, with half-open eyes, and trembled every one with still surprise, that the black Spectre should have dared assail their beauteous queen and seize her sacred veil.
A true philosopher is beyond the reach of fortune.
Be assured that, although men of eminent genius have been guilty of all other vices, none worthy of more than a secondary name has ever been a gamester. Either an excess of avarice or a deficiency of what, in physics, is called excitability, is the cause of it; neither of which can exist in the same bosom with genius, with patriotism, or with virtue.
Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear: of his strange language all I know is, there is not a word of fear.
George the First was always reckoned vile, but viler George the Second; and what mortal ever heard any good of George the Third? When from earth the Fourth descended, God be praised, the Georges ended!
I feel I am growing old for want of somebody to tell me that I am looking as young as ever. Charming falsehood! There is a vast deal of vital air loving words.
Joining in the amusements of others is, in our social state, the next thing to sympathy in their distresses, and even the slenderest bond that holds society together should rather be strengthened than snapt.
Music is God's gift to man, the only art of Heaven given to earth, the only art of earth we take to Heaven.
One lovely name adorns my song, and, dwelling in the heart, forever falters at the tongue, and trembles to depart.