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When a woman hath ceased to be quite the same to us, it matters little how different she becomes.
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
Quite
Woman
Women
Littles
Little
Ceased
Matter
Hath
Different
Matters
Becomes
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Consult duty not events.
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Friendship is a vase, which, when it is flawed by heat, or violence, or accident, may as well be broken at once it can never be trusted after.
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Every witticism is an inexact thought that which is perfectly true is imperfectly witty.
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There is a vast deal of vital air in loving words.
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The happy never say, and never hear said, farewell.
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A good cook is the peculiar gift of the gods. He must be a perfect creature from the brain to the palate, from the palate to the finger's end.
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Men universally are ungrateful towards him who instructs them, unless, in the hours or in the intervals of instruction, he presents a sweet-cake to their self-love.
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Every great writer is a writer of history, let him treat on almost what subject he may.
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God made the rose out of what was left of woman at the creation. The great difference is, we feel the rose's thorns when we gather it and the other's when we have had it for some time.
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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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Falsehood is for a season.
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But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue Within, and they that lustre have imbibed In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave: Shake one, and it awakens then apply Its polisht lips to your attentive ear, And it remembers its august abodes, And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.
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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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Such is our impatience, such our hatred of procrastination, to everything but the amendment of our practices and the adornment of our nature, one would imagine we were dragging Time along by force, and not he us.
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Fame, they tell you, is air but without air there is no life for any without fame there is none for the best.
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The happiest of pillows is not that which love first presses! it is that which death has frowned on and passed over.
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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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It is delightful to kiss the eyelashes of the beloved--is it not? But never so delightful as when fresh tears are on them.
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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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O what a thing is age! Death without death's quiet.
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