Letitia Elizabeth Landon Quotes

The lark is with triumphant song
Singing the rose-touched clouds among:
'Tis there that lighted song has birth,
What hath such hymn to do with earth?

Come, gentle harp, and let me hold
Communion with thy melody,
And be my tale of sorrow told
To thee, my harp, and only thee.

Perhaps it is a benevolent provision of Nature that we remember more what touches than what pains us.

Charles went towards the table, but he had no lady-like powers of filling four sheets with nothing, and the letter was soon sealed.

There are a thousand fanciful things
Linked round the young heart's imaginings.
In its first love-dream, a leaf or a flower
Is gifted then with a spell and a power:
A shade is an omen, a dream is a sign,
From which the maiden can well divine
Passion's whole history.

I cannot choose but marvel at the way
In which our lives pass on, from day to day
Learning strange lessons in the human heart,
And yet like shadows letting them depart.

To know yourself less beloved than you love, is a dreadful feeling

I Give thee, love, a blooming braid;
I cull'd it at eve's 'witching hour ;
I twin'd it in the moon's sweet shade,
When starlight dew was on each flower.

They see the mortal maiden ride
In honour by the chieftan's side,
So beautiful, so free from sin,
Worthy was she such boon to win :
The spirit race that floated round
Were not more pure, more stainless found

[Julian - disguised]
The hunter turns not
Despairing from the chase because the deer
Flies from his pursuit : every obstacle
Becomes a pleasure.

A summer isle, one over which the wind
Hath ever pass'd in melody,— such airs
As are born in the rose's breast, and die
Like singing on the waters.

The history of most fictions would be far stranger than the fictions themselves ; but it would be a dark and sad chronicle. Half the works that constitute the charm of our leisure, that give their own interest to the long November evening, or add to the charm of a summer noon beneath the greenwood tree, are the offspring of poverty and of pain. ... How often is the writer obliged to put his own trouble, his suffering, or his sorrow aside, to finish the task ! The hand may tremble, the eyes fill with unbidden tears, and the temples throb with feverish pain, yet how often is there some hard and harsh necessity, which says, "the work must be done.”

Yet one arrow has a power
Lasting till life's latest hour--
Weary day and sleepless night,
Lightning gleams of fierce delight,
Fragrant and yet poisoned sighs,
Agonies and ecstasies;
Hopes, like fires amid the gloom,
Lighting only to consume!

Where had thy life been at this hour,
Had not my Love been more than my Power ? —
Away, if thou fearest, — love never must,
Never can live with one shade of distrust.

My tears are buried in my heart,
Like cave-locked fountains sleeping.