Letitia Elizabeth Landon Quotes

Imagination is to love what gas is to the balloon-that which raises it from earth.

No thoroughly occupied man was ever yet very miserable.

I can pass days Stretch'd in the shade of those old cedar trees, Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall,-- The breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs, Each tree a natural harp,--each different leaf A different note, blent in one vast thanksgiving.

I think hearts are very much like glasses. If they do not break with the first ring, they usually last a considerable time.

How beautiful, buoyant, and glad is morning! The first sunshine on the leaves: the first wind, laden with the first breath of the flowers—that deep sigh with which they seem to waken from sleep; the first dew, untouched even by the light foot of the early hare; the first chirping of the rousing birds, as if eager to begin song and flight; all is redolent of the strength given by rest, and the joy of conscious life.

Ah, tell me not that memory sheds gladness o'er the past, what is recalled by faded flowers, save that they did not last?

A blossom full of promise is life's joy, That never comes to fruit. Hope, for a time, Suns the young floweret in its gladsome light, And it looks flourishing--a little while-- 'T is pass'd, we know not whither, but 't is gone.

Social life is filled with doubts and vain aspirings; solitude, when the imagination is dethroned, is turned to weariness and ennui.

The heart's hushed secret in the soft dark eye.

Ah, tell me not that memory Sheds gladness o'er the past; What is recalled by faded flowers, Save that they did not last? Were it not better to forget, Than but remember and regret?

In sad truth, half our forebodings of our neighbors are but our own wishes, which we are ashamed to utter in any other form.

An apt quotation is like a lamp which flings its light over the whole sentence.

there is nothing so easy as to be wise for others; a species of prodigality, by-the-by - for such wisdom is wholly wasted.

Strange mystery of our nature, that those in whom genius develops itself in imagination, thus taking its most ethereal form, should yet be the most dependent on the opinions of others!

Repentance is a one-faced Janus, ever looking to the past.

There is the cause for pleasure and for pain: But music moves us, and we know not why? We feel the tears, but cannot trace their source. Is it the language of some other state, Born of its memory! For what can wake The soul's strong instinct of another world, Like music！

Enthusiasm is the divine particle in our composition: with it we are great, generous, and true; without it, we are little, false, and mean.

How often, in this cold and bitter world, is the warm heart thrown back upon itself! Cold, careless, are we of another's grief; we wrap ourselves in sullen selfishness.

One of the greatest of all mental pleasures is to have our thoughts often divined: ever entered into with sympathy.

Childhood, whose very happiness is love.

Experience teaches, it is true; but she never teaches in time.

We might have been - these are but common words, and yet they make the sum of life's bewailing.

My tears are buried in my heart, like cave-locked fountains sleeping.

How disappointment tracks the steps of hope.

All profound truths startle you in the first announcement.

Strange the affection which clings to inanimate objects - objects which cannot even know our love! But it is not return that constitutes the strength of an attachment.

There is no existence so content as that whose present is engrossed by employment, and whose future is filled by some strong hope, the truth of which is never proved. Toil and illusion are the only secrets to make life tolerable.

I will look on the stars and look on thee, and read the page of thy destiny.

Are we not like the actor of old times, who wore his mask so long his face took its likeness?

When does the mind put forth its powers? when are the stores of memory unlocked? when does wit 'flash from fluent lips?' -- when but after a good dinner? Who will deny its influence on the affections? Half our friends are born of turbots and truffles.

And this is woman's fate: all her affections are called into life by winning flatteries, and then thrown back upon themselves to perish; and her heart, her trusting heart, filled with weak tenderness, is left to bleed or break!

My heart is its own grave!

A woman's fame is the tomb of her happiness.

I would give worlds, could I believe One-half that is profess'd me; Affection! could I think it Thee, When Flattery has caress'd me.

The dream on the pillow, That flits with the day, The leaf of the willow A breath wears away; The dust on the blossom, The spray on the sea; Ay,--ask thine own bosom-- Are emblems of thee.

The rich know not how hard it is to be of needful rest and needful food debarred.

Hopes and regrets are the sweetest links of existence.

Sneering springs out of the wish to deny; and wretched must that state of mind be that wishes to take refuge in doubt.

Hard are life's early steps; and but that youth is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope, men would behold its threshold, and despair.

We need to suffer, that we may learn to pity.

Society is like a large piece of frozen water; and skating well is the great art of social life.

Hope is love's happiness, but not its life.

Perhaps, from an innate desire of justification, sorrow always exaggerates itself. Memory is quite one of Job's friends; and the past is ever ready to throw its added darkness on the present.

he who seeks pleasure with reference to himself, not others, will ever find that pleasure is only another name for discontent.

... many a heart is caught in the rebound ... Pride may be soothed by the ready devotion of another; vanity may be excited the more keenly by recent mortification.

Confidence is its own security.

What is life? A gulf of troubled waters, where the soul, like a vexed bark, is tossed upon the waves of pain and pleasure by the wavering breath of passions.

Delicious tears! The heart's own dew.

Nothing but love can answer to love; no affection, no kindness, no care, can supply its place: it is its own sweet want.

Toil is the portion of day, as sleep is that of night; but if there be one hour of the twenty-four which has the life of day without its labor, and the rest of night without its slumber, it is the lovely and languid hour of twilight.