Quote

Love wakes men, once a lifetime each They lift their heavy lids, and look And, lo, what one sweet page can teach They read with joy, then shut the book.

Coventry Patmore

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Coventry Patmore
Age: 73 †
Born: 1823
Born: July 23
Died: 1896
Died: November 26
Literary Critic
Poet
Writer
Redbridge
Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
Book
Heavy
Looks
Lifetime
Coventry
Men
Pages
Lids
Love
Sweet
Wakes
Joy
Lift
Teach
Lifts
Read
Shut
Look
Page

More quotes by Coventry Patmore

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The midge's wing beats to and fro A thousand times ere one can utter O.
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The promises of God are samples of what is promised as a handful of wheat is of the barn.
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Science is a line, art a superficies, and life or the knowledge of God, a solid.
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Uncommon things must be said in common words.
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If we may credit certain hints contained in the lives of the saints, love raises the spirit above the sphere of reverence and worship into one of laughter and dalliance: a sphere in which the soul says: 'Shall I, a gnat which dances in Thy ray, Dare to be reverent?'
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The more wild and incredible your desire, the more willing and prompt God is in fulfilling it, if you will have it so.
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They who ask for no sign shall have many.
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Ask abundantly, for the measure of your asking shall be that of your receiving.
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The modern Agnostic improves upon the ancient by adding I don't care to I don't know.
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All the love and joy that a man has ever received in perception is laid up in him as the sunshine of a hundred years is laid up in the bole of the oak.
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O, Heart, remember thee That Man is none, Save One.
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It is one thing to be blind, and another to be in darkness.
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Every evil is some good spelt backwards, and in it the wise know how to read Wisdom.
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Let me love Thee so that the honour, riches, and pleasures of the world may seem unworthy even of hatred - may not even be encumbrances.
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A woman is a foreign land.
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A saint is a person who does almost everything any other decent person does, only somewhat better and with a totally different motive.
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The ardour chills us which we do not share.
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The woman is the man's glory, and she naturally delights in the praises which are assurances that she is fulfilling her function and she gives herself to him who succeeds in convincing her that she, of all others, is best able to discharge it for him. A woman without this kind of vanity is a monster.
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Then sleep the seasons, full of might While slowly swells the pod, And rounds the peach, and in the night The mushroom bursts the sod. The winter comes: the frozen rut Is bound with silver bars the white drift heaps against the hut and night is pierced with stars.
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Creation differs from subsistence only as the first leap of a fountain differs from its continuance.
Coventry Patmore