Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.
Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
I only know we loved in vain; I only feel-farewell! farewell!
Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep.
What a strange thing man is; and what a stranger thing woman.
Fare thee well, and if for ever Still for ever fare thee well.
There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.
Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year.
All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.
A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.
And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf.
Opinions are made to be changed - or how is truth to be got at?
Nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce.
If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.
I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
And the commencement of atonement is the sense of its necessity.
In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge.
Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore.
A woman being never at a loss... the devil always sticks by them.
Champagne with its foaming whirls/As white as Cleopatra's pearls.
Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.
He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss.
No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand.
There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.
In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.
No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!
Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!
A thousand years may scare form a state. An hour may lay it in ruins.
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.
So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
Of all tales 'tis the saddest--and more sad, Because it makes us smile.