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Stolen sweets are always sweeter, Stolen kisses much completer, Stolen looks are nice in chapels, Stolen, stolen be your apples.

Leigh Hunt

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Leigh Hunt
Age: 74 †
Born: 1784
Born: October 19
Died: 1859
Died: August 28
Autobiographer
Journalist
Literary Critic
Poet
Translator
Southgate
London
James Henry Leigh Hunt
Kissing
Sweet
Nice
Sweets
Looks
Chapel
Much
Sweeter
Always
Kisses
Stolen
Apples

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There are two worlds: The world that we can measure with line and rule, and the world we feel with our hearts and imaginations.
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Mankind are creatures of books, as well as of other circumstances and such they eternally remain,--proofs, that the race is a noble and believing race, and capable of whatever books can stimulate.
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Wit is the clash and reconcilement of incongruities the meeting of extremes round a corner.
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The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear, A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapped in round waves.
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Fishes do not roar they cannot express any sound of suffering and therefore the angler chooses to think they do not suffer, more than it is convenient for him to fancy. Now it is a poor sport that depends for its existence on the want of a voice in the sufferer, and of imagination in the sportsman.
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The most fascinating women are those that can most enrich the every day moments of existence. In a particular and attaching sense, they are those that can partake our pleasures and our pains in the liveliest and most devoted manner. Beauty is little without this with it she is triumphant.
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The groundwork of all happiness is health.
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God made both tears and laughter, and both for kind purposes for as laughter enables mirth and surprise to breathe freely, so tears enable sorrow to vent itself patiently. Tears hinder sorrow from becoming despair and madness.
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There seems a life in hair, though it be dead.
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Colors are the smiles of Nature. When they are extremely smiling, and break forth into other beauty besides, they are her laughs.
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Night's deepest gloom is but a calm that soothes the weary mind: The labored days restoring balm the comfort of mankind.
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An author is like a baker it is for him to make the sweets, and others to buy and enjoy them.
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Your second-hand bookseller is second to none in the worth of the treasures he dispenses.
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Patience and gentleness is power.
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A pleasure so exquisite as almost to amount to pain.
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O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights, What is 't ye do? what life lead? eh, dull goggles? How do ye vary your vile days and nights? How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes and bites, And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles.
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The last excessive feelings of delight are always grave.
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With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks To lie and read in, sloping into brooks.
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Nature, at all events, humanly speaking, is manifestly very fond of color for she has made nothing without it. Her skies are blue her fields, green her waters vary with her skies her animals, vegetables, minerals, are all colored. She paints a great any of them in apparently superfluous hues, as if to show the dullest eye how she loves color.
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Danger for danger's sake is senseless.
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