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There is a magic in that little world, home it is a mystic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never know beyond its hallowed limits.

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
Beyond
Mystic
Virtue
Circle
Home
Virtues
Littles
Surround
Little
Circles
Never
Limits
Hallowed
World
Comfort
Surrounds
Magic
Comforts

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The pulpit is a clergyman's parade the parish is his field of active service.
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I do not cast my eyes away from my troubles. I pack them in as little compass as I can for myself, and never let them annoy others.
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Order is the sanity of the mind, the health of the body, the peace of the city, the security of the state. As the beams to a house, as the bones to the microcosm of man, so is order to all things.
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She comes majestic with her swelling sails, The gallant Ship: along her watery way, Homeward she drives before the favouring gales Now flirting at their length the streamers play, And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze.
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Earth could not hold us both, nor can one heaven Contain my deadliest enemy and me.
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Little, indeed, does it concern us in this our mortal stage, to inquire whence the spirit hath come but of what infinite concern is the consideration whither it is going. Surely such consideration demands the study of a life.
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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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Kitten is in the animal world what the rosebud is in the garden the one the most beautiful of all young creatures, the other the loveliest of all opening flowers.
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Few people give themselves time to be friends.
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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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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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Give me a room whose every nook is dedicated to a book.
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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.
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For society, of all places I have ever been, Norwich is the best.
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The true one of youth's love, proving a faithful helpmate in those years when the dream of life is over, and we live in its realities.
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One fault begets another one crime renders another necessary.
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Love is indestructible, Its holy flame forever burneth From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
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That charity is bad which takes from independence its proper pride, from mendicity its salutary shame.
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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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It is not for man to rest in absolute contentment.
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