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Did you ever observe that immoderate laughter always ends in a sigh?

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
Always
Immoderate
Sigh
Observe
Laughter
Ends
Ever

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Improvement is nature.
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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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There seems a life in hair, though it be dead.
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Poetry is the breath of beauty.
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Write me as one who loves his fellow men.
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Beauty too often sacrifices to fashion. The spirit of fashion is not the beautiful, but the wilful not the graceful, but the fantastic not the superior in the abstract, but the superior in the worst of all concretes,-the vulgar.
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Those who have lost an infant are never, in a way, without an infant.
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Christmas is the glorious time of great Too-Much.
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I am persuaded there is no such thing after all as a perfect enjoyment of solitude for the more delicious the solitude the more one wants a companion.
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Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in: Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add-- Jenny kissed me!
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Danger for danger's sake is senseless.
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The beautiful attracts the beautiful.
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Affection, like melancholy, magnifies trifles but the magnifying of the one is like looking through a telescope at heavenly objects that of the other, like enlarging monsters with a microscope.
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Where the mouth is sweet and the eyes intelligent, there is always the look of beauty, with a right heart.
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A dog can have a friend he has affections and character, he can enjoy equally the field and the fireside he dreams, he caresses, he propitiates he offends, and is pardoned he stands by you in adversity he is a good fellow.
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The last excessive feelings of delight are always grave.
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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 perfection of conversational intercourse is when the breeding of high life is animated by the fervor of genius.
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The very greatest genius, after all, is not the greatest thing in the world, any more than the greatest city in the world is the country or the sky. It is the concentration of some of its greatest powers, but it is not the greatest diffusion of its might. It is not the habit of its success, the stability of its sereneness.
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Patience and gentleness is power.
Leigh Hunt