Remembrance makes the poet; 'tis the past
Lingering within him, with a keener sense
Than is upon the thoughts of common men
Of what has been, that fi… - Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Remembrance makes the poet; 'tis the past Lingering within him, with a keener sense Than is upon the thoughts of common men Of what has been, that fills the actual world With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes, That were and are not; and the fairer they, The more their contrast with existing things, The more his power, the greater is his grief.
English
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Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Letitia Elizabeth Landon (August 14, 1802 – October 15, 1838) was an English poet and novelist, better known by her initials L. E. L. She was one of the richest sources of epigrams in the early nineteenth century and one reviewer compared her to Rochefoucauld. Sometimes she adopts an adversarial role, giving contradictory viewpoints. Some of her thoughts recur, either developed or refined, but over time she also threw out differing opinions on some subjects; changeability, she argues, is one of our principal traits and, as she has one character remark, truth is like the philosopher's stone, a thing not to be discovered.
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.
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.”
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We differ widely from each other ; do we not, as circumstances change around us, moulding us like slaves to their will — do we not differ yet more from ourselves ?
