Quotes
Quotes about Wit
I sing the Poppy! The frail snowy weed! The flower of Mercy! that within its heart Doth keep "a drop serene" for human need, A drowsy balm for every bitter smart. For happy hours the Rose will idly blow-- The Poppy hath a charm for pain and woe.
Let but my scarlet head appear And I am held in scorn; Yet juice of subtile virtue lies Within my cup of curious dyes.
Gentle sleep! Scatter thy drowsiest poppies from above; And in new dreams not soon to vanish, bless My senses with the sight of her I love.
Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there: Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame. With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank, And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine.
Popularity is exhausting. The life of the party almost always winds up in a corner with an overcoat over him.
When I behold what pleasure is Pursuit, What life, what glorious eagerness it is, Then mark how full Possession falls from this, How fairer seems the blossom than the fruit,-- I am perplext, and often stricken mute. Wondering which attained the higher bliss, The wing'd insect, or the chrysalis It thrust aside with unreluctant foot.
Is it not lawful for me to do what I will with mine own? Is thine eye evil, because I am good?
And he wrote in the king Ahasuerus' name, and sealed it with the king's ring, and sent letters by posts on horseback, and riders on mules, camels, and young dromedaries: . . . . So the posts that rode upon mules and camels went out, being hastened and pressed on by the king's commandment. And the decrees was given at Shushan the palace.
Belshazzar had a letter,-- He never had but one; Belshazzar's correspondence Concluded and begun In that immortal copy The conscience of us all Can read without its glasses On revelation's wall.
Letters, from absent friends, extinguish fear, Unite division, and draw distance near; Their magic force each silent wish conveys, And wafts embodied though, a thousand ways: Could souls to bodies write, death's pow'r were mean, For minds could then meet minds with heav'n between.
A piece of simple goodness--a letter gushing from the heart; a beautiful unstudied vindication of the worth and untiring sweetness of human nature--a record of the invulnerability of man, armed with high purpose, sanctified by truth.
Line after line my gushing eye o'erflow, Led thro' a said variety of woe: Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom, Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
Ev'n so, with all submission, I . . . . Send you each year a homely letter, Who may return me much a better.
I will touch My mouth unto the leaves, caressingly; And so wilt thou. Thus, from these lips of mine My message will go kissingly to thine, With more than Fancy's load of luxury, And prove a true love-letter.
As to posterity, I may ask (with somebody whom I have forgot) what has it ever done to oblige me?
I despise mankind in all its strata; I foresee that our descendants will be still far unhappier than we are. Would I not be a criminal if, notwithstanding this view, I should provide for progeny, i.e. for unfortunates? [Ger., Ich verachte die Menschheit in allen ihren Schichten; ich sehe es voraus, dass unsere Nachkommen noch weit unglucklicher sein werden, als wir. Sollte ich nicht ein Sunder sein, wenn ich trotz dieser Ansicht fur Nachkommen, d.h. fur Ungluckliche sorgte?
For the poor always ye have with you; but me ye have not always.
Gold gives an appearance of beauty even to ugliness: but with poverty everything becomes frightful. [Fr., L'or meme a la laideur donne un teint de beaute: Mais tout devient affreux avec la pauvrete.]
Thank God for poverty That makes and keeps us free, And lets us go our unobtrusive way, Glad of the sun and rain, Upright, serene, humane, Contented with the fortune of a day.
Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.
The child was diseased at birth, stricken with a hereditary ill that only the most vital men are able to shake off. I mean poverty--the most deadly and prevalent of all diseases.
The hermit doesn't sleep at night, in love with the blue of the vacant moon. The cool of the breeze that rustles the trees rustles him too.
Odin, thou whirlwind, what a threat is this Thou threatenest what transcends thy might, even thine, For of all powers the mightiest far art thou, Lord over men on earth, and Gods in Heaven; Yet even from thee thyself hath been withheld One thing--to undo what thou thyself hast ruled.
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
O what is it proud slime will not believe Of his own worth, to hear it equal praised Thus with the gods?
