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

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O Reader! hast thou eer stood to see The Holly-tree? The eye that contemplates it well perceies Its glossy leaes Ordered by an Intelligence so wise As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.
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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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One fault begets another one crime renders another necessary.
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A good man and a wise man may at times be angry with the world, at times grieved for it but be sure no man was ever discontented with the world who did his duty in it.
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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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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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That charity is bad which takes from independence its proper pride, from mendicity its salutary shame.
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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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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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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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My name is Death: the last best friend am I.
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Cold is thy hopeless heart, even as charity.
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Our restlessness in this world seems to indicate that we are intended for a better. We have all of us a longing after happiness and surely the Creator will gratify all the natural desires he has implanted in us.
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Earth could not hold us both, nor can one heaven Contain my deadliest enemy and me.
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There is another world for all that live and move-a better one!
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Ye who dwell at home, Ye do not know the terrors of the main.
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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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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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By writing much, one learns to write well.
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