Letitia Elizabeth Landon Quotes

You may smile at the fanciful structures I rear,
And say, that my castles are built but on sand ;
Like bubbles, that on the blue waters appear,
That sparkle, invite, and then sink from the hand.

Love has no power to look forward — the delicious consciousness of the present, a faint but delightful shadow of the past, form its eternity.

O ! the heart has all too many tears ;
But none are like those that wait
On the blighted love, the loneliness
Of the young orphan's fate.

The fearless make their own way.

Yes; for, while memory languidly is fetching
Her treasures from the depths which they have lain among,
A fragile hand — how thin — how weak — is sadly sketching
Figures and fancies that cell's white walls along.
On the lip there is a murmur —
It is the swan's last song.

Alas! alas! how plague-spot like will sin
Spread over the wrung heart it enters in!

Philosophers are moral, and poets are picturesque about the country.

What a strange page in human history is that of social distinction ; no people so savage but they have a sort of fashion. Even among the wild people in whose country I am now writing, there are all the small distinctions of small gentility — for example, it is not "comme il faut to wear silk."

There are always an ample sufficiency of compassionate neighbours ready to console one who, by common consent, is styled "the disconsolate widower.”

Clara:
I will speak softly, till our gathered strength
Finds in its union voice. Ah, no delay !
The tyranny that dared to fetter wears
A midnight dagger.

Nothing discourages a child so much as the impossibility of pleasing.

True love is timid, as it knew its worth,
And that such happiness is scarce for earth.

Its berries are red as a maiden's lip,
Its leaves are of changeless green ;
And any thing changeless now, I wis,
Is somewhat rare to be seen.
The holly, which fall and frost has borne,
The holly's the wreath for a Christmas morn.

Ridicule is the re-action of enthusiasm. Sentiment was considered confined to schools ; and, so far from affecting too much feeling, people were beginning to be ashamed of having any.

The woman was in abject misery—that worst of poverty, which is haunted by shame—the only relic left by better days. She shrunk from all efforts at recovery, refused to administer the medicines, and spoke of the child's death but as a blessing.
My God! and is the daily page of life
Darken'd with wretchedness like this?