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Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?

Charles Lamb

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Charles Lamb
Age: 59 †
Born: 1775
Born: February 10
Died: 1834
Died: December 27
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Writer
London
England
Dream
Steals
Home
Sadly
Heart
Stealing
Sea
Soon
Sweet
Land
Fleet
Felt
Roam

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Boys are capital fellows in their own way, among their mates but they are unwholesome companions for grown people.
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If dirt were trumps, what hands you would hold!
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Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime!
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We were happier when we were poorer, but we were also younger.
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And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
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A man cannot have a pure mind who refuses apple dumplings.
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I have sat through an Italian opera, til, for sheer pain, and inexplicable anguish, I have rushed out into the noisiest places of the crowded street, to solace myself with sounds which I was not obliged to follow and get rid of the distracting torment of endless, fruitless, barren attention!
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To sigh, yet feel no pain To weep, yet scarce know why To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.
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I love to lose myself in other men's minds.... Books think for me.
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Is the world all grown up? Is childhood dead? Or is there not in the bosom of the wisest and the best some of the child's heart left, to respond to its earliest enchantments?
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Satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone.
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Pain is life - the sharper, the more evidence of life.
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A pun is not bound by the laws which limit nicer wit. It is a pistol let off at the ear not a feather to tickle the intellect.
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I am, in plainer words, a bundle of prejudices - made up of likings and dislikings.
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Don't introduce me to that man! I want to go on hating him, and I can't hate a man whom I know.
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The measure of choosing well, is, whether a man likes and finds good in what he has chosen.
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I conceive disgust at these impertinent and misbecoming familiarities inscribed upon your ordinary tombstone.
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Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
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Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.
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A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins.
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