Hope is love's happiness, but not its life;— How many hearts have nourished a vain flame In silence and in secret, though they knew They fed the scorching fire that would consume them!
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English Quotes — page 1624
Quotes originally written in English, with their source.
Oh, all Know love is woman's happiness.
Thrice hallowed shrine Of the heart's intercourse, our own fireside!
How I pity those whose childhood has been unhappy! to them one of the sweetest springs of feeling has been utterly denied, the most green and beautiful part of life laid waste.
It is a sweet, albeit most painful, feeling To know we are regretted.
How many glorious structures we had raised Upon Hope's sandy basis!
Death's a fearful thing when we must count its steps!
An Alma girl! oh shame, deep shame, To Brahma's race and Brahma's name! Unmarked, unpitied, she turned aside, For a moment her bursting tears to hide. None thought of the Bayadere, till the fire Blazed redly and fiercely the funeral pyre,
Yet gazed MANDALLA on the square As she he sought still glided there,— Oh that fond look, whose eyeballs' strain, And will not know its look is vain! At length he turned,—his silent mood Sought that impassioned solitude,
The loorie brought to his cinnamon nest. The bee from the midst of its honey quest, And open the leaves of the lotus lay To welcome the noon of the summer day.
And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear, For the smiling of woman shineth not here.
'Tis something, if in absence we can see The footsteps of the past:—it soothes the heart To breathe the air scented in other years By lips beloved; to wander through the groves Where once we were not lonely,—
Delicious tears! the heart's own dew.
Love is like the glass, That throws its own rich colour over all, And makes all beautiful.
I do love violets: They tell the history of woman's love; They open with the earliest breath of spring; Lead a sweet life of perfume, dew, and light; And, if they perish, perish with a sigh Delicious as that life.
There was a grave just closed. Not one seemed near, To pay the tribute of one long—last tear! How very desolate must that one be, Whose more than grave has not a memory!
How very desolate that breast must be, Whose only joyance is in memory! And what must woman suffer, thus betrayed?— Her heart's most warm and precious feelings made But things wherewith to wound: that heart—so weak, So soft—laid open to …
Then they were silent:—words are little aid To Love, whose deepest vows are ever made By the heart's beat alone. Oh, silence is Love's own peculiar eloquence of bliss!
It is a night of summer,—and the sea Sleeps, like a child, in mute tranquillity. Soft o'er the deep-blue wave the moonlight breaks; Gleaming, from out the white clouds of its zone,
I loved him as young Genius loves, When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light, The love, the life, by passion given. I loved him, too, as woman loves-- Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn:
It is most sad to watch the fall Of autumn leaves!--but worst of all It is to watch the flower of spring Faded in its fresh blossoming!
There are a thousand fanciful things Linked round the young heart's imaginings. In its first love-dream, a leaf or a flower Is gifted then with a spell and a power: A shade is an omen, a dream is a sign, From which the maiden can well …
It was my evil star above, Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong; It was not song that taught me love, But it was love that taught me song.
But Love's bright fount is never pure; And all his pilgrims must endure All passion's mighty suffering Ere they may reach the blessed spring.