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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.

Samuel Rogers

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Samuel Rogers
Age: 92 †
Born: 1763
Born: July 30
Died: 1855
Died: December 18
Banker
Poet
Writer
Author of an Ode to superstition
S Rogers
Saml Rogers
Made
Time
Chinks
Vanish

More quotes by Samuel Rogers

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Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.
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Example is a motive of very prevailing force on the actions of men.
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Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
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It doesn't much signify whom one marries, for one is sure to find next morning that it was someone else.
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When a new book is published, read an old one.
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I am in Rome! Oft as the morning ray Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry, Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me? And from within a thrilling voice replies, Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughts Rush on my mind, a thousand images And I spring up as girt to run a race!
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Gentle to others, to himself severe.
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A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
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Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village-green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day.
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Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
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Women have the understanding of the heart, which is better than that of the head.
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By many a temple half as old as Time.
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Mine be a cot beside the hill A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.
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I lived to write, and wrote to live.
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Then never less alone than when alone.
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The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd, The child is born by many a pang endear'd And now the mother's ear has caught his cry O grant the cherub to her asking eye! He comes--she clasps him. To her bosom press'd He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.
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Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies!
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Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.
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Man to the last is but a froward child So eager for the future, come what may, And to the present so insensible.
Samuel Rogers