Quote

I look'd to Heav'n, and try'd to pray But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came and made My heart as dry as dust.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Age: 61 †
Born: 1772
Born: October 21
Died: 1834
Died: July 25
Critic
Literary Critic
Philosopher
Poet
Theologian
Ottery St Mary
Devon
S. T. Coleridge
Looks
Wicked
Heart
Dust
Trying
Pray
Made
Praying
Prayer
Came
Heav
Ever
Whisper
Look
Dry

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A maxim is a conclusion upon observation of matters of fact, and is merely speculative a principle carries knowledge within itself, and is prospective.
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Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, And hope without an object cannot live.
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Bells, the poor man's only music.
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In the deepest night of trouble and sorrow God gives us so much to be thankful for that we need never cease our singing. With all our wisdom and foresight we can take a lesson in gladness and gratitude from the happy bird that sings all night, as if the day were not long enough to tell its joy.
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The juggle of sophistry consists, for the most part, in using a word in one sense in all the premises, and in another sense in the conclusion.
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I must reject fluids and ethers of all kinds, magnetical, electrical, and universal, to whatever quintessential thinness they may be treble distilled, and as it were super-substantiated.
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The Eighth Commandment was not made for bards.
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To believe and to understand are not diverse things, but the same things in different periods of growth.
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...in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfish solicitude, we have eyes yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor understand.
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If you wish to assured of the truth of Christianity, try it. Believe, and if thy belief be right, that insight which gradually transmutes faith into knowledge will be the reward of thy belief.
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Within today, tomorrow is already walking.
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Remorse is as the heart in which it grows If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews Of true repentance but if proud and gloomy, It is the poison tree, that pierced to the inmost, Weeps only tears of poison.
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An orphan's curse would drag to hell, a spirit from on high but oh! more horrible than that, is a curse in a dead man's eye!
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He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.
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Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze - On me alone it blew.
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Poor little Foal of an oppressed race! I love the languid patience of thy face.
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Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends! Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? Three treasures, love and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.
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How strange and awful is the synthesis of life and death in the gusty winds and falling leaves of an autumnal day!
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And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin is pride that apes humility.
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