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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!

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
World
Threshold
Hath
Grave
Graves
Eternity
Weight
Sundered
Meet
Unendurable
Death
Headstone

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If you would be pungent, be brief.
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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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Ye who dwell at home, Ye do not know the terrors of the main.
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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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A wise judge, by the craft of the law, was never seduced from its purpose.
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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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That charity is bad which takes from independence its proper pride, from mendicity its salutary shame.
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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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It is not for man to rest in absolute contentment.
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My name is Death: the last best friend am I.
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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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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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Earth could not hold us both, nor can one heaven Contain my deadliest enemy and me.
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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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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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Thou hast been called, O sleep, the friend of woe, But 'tis the happy that have called thee so.
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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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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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The pulpit is a clergyman's parade the parish is his field of active service.
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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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