Over 40,000 Famous Quotes Sorted By Topic and Author

When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter." And proved it--'t was no matter what he said.

I am bound to furnish my antagonists with arguments, but not with comprehension.

Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were; First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away--Is this the whole?

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.

But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.

And hold up to the sun my little taper.

Dear authors! suit your topics to your strength, And ponder well your subject, and its length; Nor lift your lad, before you're quite aware What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, To hail his father; while his little form Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of pain! The childless cherubs well might envy thee The pleasures of a parent.

He smiles, and sleeps!--sleep on And smile, thou little, young inheritor Of a world scarce less young: sleep on and smile! Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering And innocent!

How lovely he appears! his little cheeks In their pure incarnation, vying with The rose leaves strewn beneath them. And his lips, too, How beautifully parted! No; you shall not Kiss him; at least not now; he will wake soon-- His hour of midday rest is nearly over.

The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonized the whole, And, oh! the eye was in itself a Soul!

Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess, The might--the majesty of Loveliness?

Thou who hast The fatal gist of beauty.

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth; Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, As if her veins ran lightning.

A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.

She walks in beauty like the night Of cloudless chimes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

That all-softening, overpowering knell, The tocsin of the soul--the dinner bell.

So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!

Blushed like the waves of hell.