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All deception in the course of life is indeed nothing else but a lie reduced to practice, and falsehood passing from words into things.

Robert Southey

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Robert Southey
Age: 68 †
Born: 1774
Born: August 12
Died: 1843
Died: March 21
Biographer
Historian
Poet
Politician
Translator
Writer
Bristol
Gloucestershire
Robert Southey
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Nothing
Passing
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Indeed
Life
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Reduced
Practice
Deceit
Lying
Falsehood
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Deception

More quotes by Robert Southey

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From his brimstone bed, at break of day, A-walking the Devil is gone, To look at his little snug farm of the World, And see how his stock went on.
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Ye who dwell at home, Ye do not know the terrors of the main.
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Cold is thy hopeless heart, even as charity.
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If you would be pungent, be brief.
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A man may be cheerful and contented in celibacy, but I do not think he can ever be happy it is an unnatural state, and the best feelings of his nature are never called into action.
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Give me a room whose every nook is dedicated to a book.
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Whatever increases the strength and authority of your body over your mind, that is sin to you, however, innocent it may be in itself.
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In the days of my youth I remembered my God! And He hath not forgotten my age.
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One fault begets another one crime renders another necessary.
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For society, of all places I have ever been, Norwich is the best.
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Man hath a weary pilgrimage, As through the word he wends On every stage, from youth to age, Still discontent attends.
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Live as long as you may, the first twenty years are the longest half of your life.
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They sin who tell us love can die With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity. Love is indestructible, Its holy flame forever burneth From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest-time of love is there.
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Affliction is not sent in vain, young man, from that good God, who chastens whom he loves.
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There is another world for all that live and move-a better one!
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My days among the dead are passed Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.
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The grave is but the threshold of eternity. What a world were this, how unendurable its weight, If they whom death hath sundered, did not meet again!
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Few people give themselves time to be friends.
Robert Southey
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You are old, Father William, the young man cried, The few locks which are left you are gray You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,- Now tell me the reason I pray.
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The solitary Bee Whose buzzing was the only sound of life, Flew there on restless wing, Seeking in vain one blossom where to fix.
Robert Southey