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Cold is thy hopeless heart, even as charity.

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
Cold
Even
Heart
Hopeless
Charity

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Few people give themselves time to be friends.
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Cupid the little greatest god.
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Love is indestructible, Its holy flame forever burneth From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
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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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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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Affliction is not sent in vain, young man, from that good God, who chastens whom he loves.
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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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There was a time when I believed in the persuadability of man, and had the mania of man-mending. Experience has taught me better. The ablest physician can do little in the great lazar-house of society. He acts the wisest part who retires from the contagion.
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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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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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My name is Death: the last best friend am I.
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In the days of my youth I remembered my God! And He hath not forgotten my age.
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Ye who dwell at home, Ye do not know the terrors of the main.
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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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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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The pulpit is a clergyman's parade the parish is his field of active service.
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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.
Robert Southey
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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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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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