Leigh Hunt

. . . and then we wake, And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along Twixt villages, and think how we shall take Our own calm journey on for human sake.

It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands, Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream, And times and things, as in that vision, seem Keeping along it their eternal stands.

The world was all forgot, the struggle o’er, Desperate the joy.— That day they read no more.

With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks To lie and read in, sloping into brooks.

The two divinest things this world has got, A lovely woman in a rural spot!

Oh for a seat in some poetic nook, Just hid with trees and sparkling with a brook!

If you are ever at a loss to support a flagging conversation, introduce the subject of eating.

The same people who can deny others everything are famous for refusing themselves nothing.

Fishes do not roar; they cannot express any sound of suffering; and therefore the angler chooses to think they do not suffer, more than it is convenient for him to fancy. Now it is a poor sport that depends for its existence on the want of …

Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me;

His lady to remove the toll that makes the land forlorn, Will surely ride through Coventry, naked as she was born.

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild: The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right …

Write me as one who loves his fellow men.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter, Stolen kisses much completer, Stolen looks are nice in chapels, Stolen, stolen, be your apples.

That there is pain and evil, is no rule That I should make it greater, like a fool.