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I strove with none, for none was worth my strife. Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art: I warm'd both hands before the fire of life It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

Walter Savage Landor

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Walter Savage Landor
Age: 89 †
Born: 1775
Born: January 30
Died: 1864
Died: September 17
Poet
Writer
Warwick
Warwickshire
Nature
Warm
Hands
None
Life
Worth
Loved
Ready
Strove
Fire
Sinks
Next
Depart
Art
Strife

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Truth sometimes corner unawares upon Caution, and sometimes speaks in public as unconsciously as in a dream.
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The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.
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A man's vanity tells him what is honor, a man's conscience what is justice.
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How sweet and sacred idleness is!
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Piety--warm, soft, and passive as the ether round the throne of Grace--is made callous and inactive by kneeling too much.
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Dignity, in private men and in governments, has been little else than a stately and stiff perseverance in oppression and spirit, as it is called, little else than the foam of hard-mouthed insolence.
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The present, like a note in music, is nothing but as it appertains to what is past and what is to come.
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Clear writers, like fountains, do not seem so deep as they are the turbid look the most profound.
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True wit, to every man, is that which falls on another.
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Little men build up great ones, but the snow colossus soon melts the good stand under the eye of God, and therefore stand.
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Old trees in their living state are the only things that money cannot command.
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I sometimes think that the most plaintive ditty has brought a fuller joy and of longer duration to its composer that the conquest of Persia to the Macedonian.
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No good writer was ever long neglected no great man overlooked by men equally great. Impatience is a proof of inferior strength, and a destroyer of what little there may be.
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Cats ask plainly for what they want.
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Not dancing well, I never danced at all--and how grievously has my heart ached when others where in the full enjoyment of that conversation which I had no right even to partake.
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In the hours of distress and misery, the eyes of every mortal turn to friendship in the hours of gladness and conviviality, what is our want? It is friendship. When the heart overflows with gratitude, or with any other sweet or sacred sentiment, what is the word to which it would give utterance? A friend.
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I delight in the diffusion of learning yet, I must confess it, I am most gratified and transported at finding a large quantity of it in one place just as I would rather have a solid pat of butter at breakfast, than a splash of grease upon the table-cloth that covers half of it.
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No friendship is so cordial or so delicious as that of girl for girl no hatred so intense and immovable as that of woman for woman.
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Fancy is imagination in her youth and adolescence. Fancy is always excursive imagination, not seldom, is sedate.
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Those who in living fill the smallest space, In death have often left the greatest void.
Walter Savage Landor