H.W. Charles Quotes

The only true time which a man can properly call his own, is that which he has all to himself; the rest, though in some sense he may be said to live it, is other people's time, not his.

Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.

When thus the heart is in a vein Of tender thought, the simplest strain Can touch it with peculiar power.

I give thee all,-I can no more, Though poor the off'ring be; My heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee.

Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?

I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition 's shown; And all that history, much that fiction weaves.

Sassafras wood boiled down to a kind of tea, and tempered with an infusion of milk and sugar hath to some a delicacy beyond the China luxury.

The English writer, Charles Lamb, said one day: "I hate that man." "But you don't know him." "Of course, I don't," said Lamb. "Do you think I could possibly hate a man I know?"

Oh stay! oh stay! Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh 't is pain To break its links so soon.

To sigh, yet feel no pain; To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.

In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from the binding.

A child's nature is too serious a thing to admit of its being regarded as a mere appendage to another being.

In every thing that relates to science, I am a whole Encyclopaedia behind the rest of the world.

Science has succeeded to poetry, no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is there no possibility of averting this sore evil?

The good things of life are not to be had singly, but come to us with a mixture; like a school-boy's holiday, with a task affixed to the tail of it.

Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see another mountain in my life.

'T is sweet to think that where'er we rove We are sure to find something blissful and dear; And that when we 're far from the lips we love, We 've but to make love to the lips we are near.

When twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love.

There was a little man, and he had a little soul; And he said, Little Soul, let us try, try, try!

She unbent her mind afterwards - over a book.

When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

Books which are no books.

Presents, I often say, endear absents.

As half in shade and half in sun This world along its path advances, May that side the sun 's upon Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.

Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.

We love to chew the cud of a foregone vision; to collect the scattered rays of a brighter phantasm, or act over again, with firmer nerves, the sadder nocturnal tragedies.

An album is a garden, not for show Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow.

In the indications of female poverty there can be no disguise. No woman dresses below herself from caprice.

I allow no hot-beds in the gardens of Parnassus.

It is well if the good man himself does not feel his devotions a little clouded, those foggy sensuous steams mingling with and polluting the pure altar surface.

We are ashamed at the sight of a monkey--somehow as we are shy of poor relations.

Dream not ... of having tasted all the grandeur and wildness of fancy till you have gone mad!

Not if I know myself at all.

I can scarce bring myself to believe, that I am admitted to a familiar correspondence, and all the license of friendship, with a man who writes blank verse like Milton.

By myself walking, To myself talking.

Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.

Is it a stale remark to say that I have constantly found the interest excited at a playhouse to bear an exact inverse proportion to the price paid for admission?

Books think for me. I can read anything which I call a book.

No woman dresses below herself from mere caprice.

A laxity pervades the popular use of words.

Every commonplace or trite observation is not a truism.

Time partially reconciles us to anything. I gradually became content--doggedly contented, as wild animals in cages.

There is a pleasure in affecting affectation.

The most mortifying infirmity in human nature, to feel in ourselves, or to contemplate in another, is perhaps cowardice.

Uniformity and Evolution are one.

Nothing perhaps has so retarded the reception of the higher conclusions of Geology among men in general, as ... [the] instinctive parsimony of the human mind in matters where time is concerned.

Far too many people hide behind their busy lifestyles

We need more radicalism among us before we can speak as becomes a suffering, oppressed, and persecuted people.

No matter how skillfully a man play the game of life, there is but one test of his ability--did he win?