Letitia Elizabeth Landon Quotes

I stood between the meeting Years,
The coming and the past,
And I ask'd of the future one,
Wilt thou be like the last?

How many are there who live eleven months on the hope of the twelfth given to some brief but delightful wandering.

Methinks adieu
Is cold, when uttered with aught else but tears.

Sleep, little Paul, what, crying, hush ! the night is very dark ;
The wolves are near the rampart, the dogs begin to bark ;
The bell has rung for slumber, and the guardian angel weeps
When a little child beside the hearth so late a play-time keeps.

O beauty of the midnight skies!
O mystery of each distant star !
O dreaming hours, whose magic lies
In rest and calm, with Day afar!
Thanks for the higher moods that wake
Our thoughtful and immortal part !—
Out on our life, could we not make
A spiritual temple of the heart ?

Grief hath stern and silent powers,
And her house is proud ;
Not to-day's cold guarded hours
Is despair allow'd ;
But, shut out with haughty fears,
Pride with daylight disappears,
From the lovely Zegri Ladye —
The Ladye weeping there.

... absence is
The moonlight of affection ;

An Alma girl! oh shame, deep shame,
To Brahma's race and Brahma's name!
Unmarked, unpitied, she turned aside,
For a moment her bursting tears to hide.
None thought of the Bayadere, till the fire
Blazed redly and fiercely the funeral pyre,
Then like a thought she darted by,
And sprang on the burning pile to die!

THE fountain's low singing is heard on the wind,
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind;
Some to grieve, some to gladden: around them they cast
The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the past.
Away in the distance is heard the vast sound,
From the streets of the city that compass it round,
Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call;
Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all.

'T was night, but night which the imperial moon,
Regal in her full beauty, turn'd to noon,
But still the noon of midnight; though the ray
Was clear and bright, it was not that of day;

The evil spirit of love left his soul for a moment, but returned, though with a strange and lurid aspect, bringing with him other and worse spirits than himself—hate, revenge, blood-thirstiness—all merged in and coloured by the excited and fanatic temper of the time.

Charles coloured, from “a complication of disorders.” First he was quite shy enough to be annoyed at its being supposed that he cared whether there were any young ladies in the world or not; and, secondly, he was quite romantic enough to be shocked at the idea of money supplying the want of a pretty face.

English people ... never speak, excepting in cases of fire or murder, unless they are introduced.

For his was now the loveliest part
Of the young poet's life, when first,
In solitude and silence nurst,
His genius rises like a spring
Unnoticed in its wandering;
Ere winter cloud or summer ray
Have chill'd, or wasted it away,

The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it,
Or who ever read in the depths of their own? —
How much, we never may speak of, yet feel it,
But, even in feeling it, know it unknown!