Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth
Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.
There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.
Comfort and indolence are cronies.
Some sigh for this and that; My wishes don't go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.
Pity it is to slay the meanest thing.
What is a modern poet's fate? / To write his thoughts upon a slate; / The critic spits on what is done, / Gives it a wipe - and all is gone.
Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise; But waking flow'rs, At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.
For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat
Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint; But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?
My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read-- Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a lark instead.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: