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I warmed 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
Life
Warmed
Sinks
Depart
Dying
Ready
Fire
Death
Hands

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There are proud men of so much delicacy that it almost conceals their pride, and perfectly excuses it.
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Falsehood is for a season.
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I hate false words, and seek with care, difficulty, and moroseness, those that fit the thing.
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We cannot at once catch the applauses of the vulgar and expect the approbation of the wise.
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Cruelty is the highest pleasure to the cruel man it is his love.
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Kings play at war unfairly with republics they can only lose some earth, and some creatures they value as little, while republics lose in every soldier a part of themselves.
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No thoroughly occupied person was ever found really miserable.
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Every sect is a moral check on its neighbour. Competition is as wholesome in religion as in commerce.
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Delay in justice is injustice.
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Next in criminality to him who violates the laws of his country, is he who violates the language.
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Happiness, like air and water, the other two great requisites of life, is composite. One kind of it suits one man, another kind another. The elevated mind takes in and breathes out again that which would be uncongenial to the baser and the baser draws life and enjoyment from that which would be putridity to the loftier.
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An ingenious mind feels in unmerited praise the bitterest reproof.
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The very beautiful rarely love at all those precious images are placed above the reach of the passions: Time alone is permitted to efface them.
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There is no eloquence which does not agitate the soul.
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There is a vast deal of vital air in loving words.
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Nations, like individuals, interest us in their growth.
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The flame of anger, bright and brief, sharpens the barb of love.
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Greatness, as we daily see it, is unsociable.
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The wise become as the unwise in the enchanted chambers of Power, whose lamps make every face the same colour.
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Moroseness is the evening of turbulence.
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