Robert Southey

Wild dreams! but such As Plato lov'd; such as with holy zeal Our Milton worshipp'd. Blessed hopes! awhile From man with-held, even to the latter days When Christ shall come, and all things be fulfill'd.

Somebody has been sitting in my chair!

And then she went to the porridge of the Little, Small, Wee Bear, and tasted that; and that was neither too hot nor too cold, but just right.

Write poetry for its own sake — not in a spirit of emulation, and not with a view to celebrity; the less you aim at that the more likely you will be to deserve and finally to obtain it.

Literature cannot be the business of a woman's life, and it ought not to be.

And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, — And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing,

It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry,

From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For a while, till it sleeps

So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store.

How does the water Come down at Lodore?

The march of intellect.

The arts babblative and scribblative.

How little do they see what is, who frame Their hasty judgement upon that which seems!

Thou hast been called, O sleep! the friend of woe; But ’tis the happy that have called thee so.

Oh, when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then for pains and fears, The day of woe, the watchful night, For all her sorrow, all her tears, An over-payment of delight?

They sin who tell us love can die; With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity. . . . . . Love is indestructible, Its holy flame forever burneth;

Curses are like young chickens, they always come home to roost.

Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust.

My days among the Dead are past; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old; My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.

The laws are with us, and God on our side.

Where Washington hath left His awful memory A light for after times!

And last of all an Admiral came, A terrible man with a terrible name,— A name which you all know by sight very well, But which no one can speak, and no one can spell.

What will not woman, gentle woman dare, When strong affection stirs her spirit up?