Quote

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.

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
Length
Gale
Ships
Majestic
Along
Ripple
Gales
Comes
Flirting
Homeward
Play
Breeze
Watery
Way
Drives
Gallant
Sail
Swelling
Ship
Sails

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It is not for man to rest in absolute contentment. He is born to hopes and aspirations as the sparks fly upward, unless he has brutalized his nature and quenched the spirit of immortality which is his portion.
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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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Ye who dwell at home, Ye do not know the terrors of the main.
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For society, of all places I have ever been, Norwich is the best.
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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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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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Earth could not hold us both, nor can one heaven Contain my deadliest enemy and me.
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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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Without religion the highest endowments of intellect can only render the possessor more dangerous if he be ill disposed if well disposed, only more unhappy.
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And when my own Mark Antony Against young Caesar strove, And Rome's whole world was set in arms, The cause was,--all for love.
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Give me a room whose every nook is dedicated to a book.
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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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Love is indestructible, Its holy flame forever burneth From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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