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Was genius ever ungrateful? Mere talents are dry leaves, tossed up and down by gusts of passion, and scattered and swept away but, Genius lies on the bosom of Memory, and Gratitude at her feet.

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
Ever
Lies
Swept
Genius
Bosoms
Talent
Talents
Memories
Dry
Gusts
Feet
Leaves
Tossed
Passion
Gratitude
Scattered
Lying
Memory
Bosom
Away
Mere
Ungrateful

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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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I hate false words, and seek with care, difficulty, and moroseness, those that fit the thing.
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Truth, like the juice of the poppy, in small quantities, calms men in larger, heats and irritates them, and is attended by fatal consequences in excess.
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There is a desire of property in the sanest and best men, which Nature seems to have implanted as conservative of her works, and which is necessary to encourage and keep alive the arts.
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States, like men, have their growth, their manhood, their decrepitude, their decay.
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Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's.
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He who brings ridicule to bear against truth finds in his hand a blade without a hilt.
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Do not expect to be acknowledged for what you are, much less for what you would be since no one can well measure a great man but upon the bier.
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Cruelty is no more the cure of crimes than it is the cure of sufferings compassion, in the first instance, is good for both I have known it to bring compunction when nothing else would.
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The assailant is often in the right that the assailed is always.
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Wisdom consisteth not in knowing many things, nor even in knowing them thoroughly but in choosing and in following what conduces the most certainly to our lasting happiness and true glory.
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Moroseness is the evening of turbulence.
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He who brings ridicule to bear against truth finds in his hand a blade without a hilt. The most sparkling and pointed flame of wit flickers and expires against the incombustible walls of her sanctuary.
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How sweet and sacred idleness is!
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Absurdities are great or small in proportion to custom or insuetude.
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Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.
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The sweetest souls, like the sweetest flowers, soon canker in cities, and no purity is rarer there than the purity of delight.
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Solitude is the audience-chamber of God.
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A wise man will always be a Christian, because the perfection of wisdom is to know where lies tranquillity of mind and how to attain it, which Christianity teaches.
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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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