Quote

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!

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
Many
Evening
Time
Youth
Chime
Sweet
Chimes
Heard
Soothing
Lasts
Tale
Last
Bells
Home
Tales
Music
Tells

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I never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man.
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In the Negro countenance you will often meet with strong traits of benignity. I have felt yearnings of tenderness towards some of these faces.
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How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me all are departed All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
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A flow'ret crushed in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying
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The world meets nobody half way.
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Fly not yet 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.
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Dream not ... of having tasted all the grandeur and wildness of fancy till you have gone mad!
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Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.
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Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.
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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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You may derive thoughts from others your way of thinking, the mould in which your thoughts are cast, must be your own.
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The pilasters reaching down were adorned with a glistering substance (I know not what) under glass (as it seemed), resembling - a homely fancy, but I judged it to be sugar-candy yet to my raised imagination, divested of its homelier qualities, it appeared a glorified candy.
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Shakespeare is one of the last books one should like to give up, perhaps the one just before the Dying Service in a large Prayer book.
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The true poet dreams being awake.
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Here cometh April again, and as far as I can see the world hath more fools in it than ever.
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Asparagus inspires gentle thoughts.
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We are nothing less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.
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Much depends upon when and where you read a book. In the five or six impatient minutes before the dinner is quite ready, who would think of taking up the Faerie Queen for a stopgap, or a volume of Bishop Andrews's Sermons?
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Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
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It is good to love the unknown.
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