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There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

Edward Young

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Edward Young
Died: 1765
Died: April 5
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Upham
Hampshire
Prose
Logic
Mystery
Poetry
Beyond
Literature
Something
Admired
Explained

More quotes by Edward Young

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Think naught a trifle, though it small appear Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.
Edward Young
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What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!
Edward Young
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Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
Edward Young
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Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.
Edward Young
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Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
Edward Young
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The man that makes a character, makes foes.
Edward Young
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Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.
Edward Young
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There is nothing of which men are more liberal than their good advice, be their stock of it ever so small because it seems to carry in it an intimation of their own influence, importance or worth.
Edward Young
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They most the world enjoy who least admire.
Edward Young
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Youth is not rich in time it may be poor Part with it as with money, sparing pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds they can tell.
Edward Young
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Horace appears in good humor while he censures, and therefore his censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment and not from passion.
Edward Young
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Tomorrow is a satire on today, And shows its weakness.
Edward Young
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Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.
Edward Young
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Unlearned men of books assume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
Edward Young
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Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor who lives to fancy, never can be rich.
Edward Young
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Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
Edward Young
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Day buries day month, month and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.
Edward Young
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But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
Edward Young
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Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.
Edward Young
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And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Edward Young