Over 40,000 Famous Quotes Sorted By Topic and Author

His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, His back to earth, his face to heaven.

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.

This is to be along; this, this is solitude!

Among them, but not of them.

In solitude, when we are least alone.

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive.

Solitary trees, if they grow at all, grow strong.

Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.

His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call "rigmarole."

Like the lost pleiad seen no more below.

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

Exhausting thought, And having wisdom with each studious year.

They never fail who die In a great cause.

One must be a god to be able to tell successes from failures without making a mistake.

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, Which then seems as if the whole earth is bounded, Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still, With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill Upon the other, and the rosy sky With one star sparkling through it like an eye.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing save the waves and I May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die.

Jack was embarrassed--never hero more, And as he knew not what to say, he swore.

In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.