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Thou hast been called, O sleep, the friend of woe, But 'tis the happy that have called thee so.

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
Happy
Hast
Woe
Thou
Thee
Friendship
Friend
Sleep
Called

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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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That charity is bad which takes from independence its proper pride, from mendicity its salutary shame.
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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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No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other's worth.
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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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Faith in the hereafter is as necessary for the intellectual as the moral character and to the man of letters, as well as to the Christian, the present forms but the slightest portion of his existence.
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Be thankful that your lot has fallen on times when, though there may be many evil tongues and exasperated spirits, there are none who have fire and fagot at command.
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It is not for man to rest in absolute contentment.
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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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Let us depart! the universal sun Confines not to one land his blessed beams Nor is man rooted, like a tree, whose seed, the winds on some ungenial soil have cast there, where it cannot prosper.
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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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Cupid the little greatest god.
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And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win. But what good came of it at last? Quoth little Peterkin. Why, that I cannot tell, said he, But 'twas a famous victory.
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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.
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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.
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Whoever has tasted the breath of morning knows that the most invigorating and most delightful hours of then day are commonly spent in bed though it is the evident intention of nature that we should enjoy and profit by them.
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Three things a wise man will not trust, The wind, the sunshine of an April day, And woman's plighted faith.
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For a young and presumptuous poet a disposition to write satires is one of the most dangerous he can encourage. It tempts him to personalities, which are not always forgiven after he has repented and become ashamed of them.
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Ye who dwell at home, Ye do not know the terrors of the main.
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I can remember, with unsteady feet, Tottering from room to room, and finding pleasure In flowers, and toys, and sweetmeats, things which long Have lost their power to please which when I see them, Raise only now a melancholy wish I were the little trifler once again, Who could be pleas'd so lightly.
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