Quotes
Quotes about Wit
Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?
Beauty without grace is the hook without the bait.
We're all stumbling towards the light with varying degrees of grace at any given moment.
Accept good advice gracefully - as long as it doesn't interfere with what you intended to do in the first place.
Always accept good fortune with grace and humility.
LightWinged Smoke Lightwinged Smoke, Icarian bird, Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight, Lark without song, and the messenger of dawn, Circling above the hamlets as thy nest; Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts; By night star-veiling, and by day Darkening the light and blotting out the sun; Go thou my incense upward from this hearth, And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame. -Henry David Thoreau-.
In New Yorkâwhose subway trains in particular have been "tattooed" with an energy to put our own rude practitioners to shameânot an inch of free space is spared except that of advertisements.
No iron can pierce the heart with such force as a period put just at the right place.
Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the grasshopper's--he takes the lead In summer luxury--he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
Thanks are justly due for things got without purchase. [Lat., Gratia pro rebus merito debetur inemtis.]
Let but the commons hear this testament, Which (pardon me) I do not mean to read, And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Upon their issue.
I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath often left me mourning.
Gratitude is one of those things that cannot be bought. It must be born with men, or else all the obligations in the world will not create it.
Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down; Where a green grassy turf is all I crave, With here and there a violet bestrown, Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave; And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.
Here's an acre sown indeed, With the richest royalest seed.
Build me a shrine, and I could kneel To rural Gods, or prostrate fall; Did I not see, did I not feel. That One Great Spirit governs all. O Heaven, permit that I may lie Where o'er my corse green branches wave; And those who from life's tumults fly With kindred feelings press my grave.
I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break.
Alas, poor Tom! how oft, with merry heart, Have we beheld thee play the Sexton's part; Each comic heart must now be grieved to see The Sexton's dreary part performed on thee.
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Those wanting wit affect gravity, and go by the name of solid men.
Burn to be great, Pay not thy praise to lofty things alone. The plains are everlasting as the hills, The bard cannot have two pursuits; aught else Comes on the mind with the like shock as though Two worlds had gone to war, and met in air.
Man's Unhappiness, as I construe, comes of his Greatness; it is because there is an Infinite in him, which with all his cunning he cannot quite bury under the Finite.
No man was ever great without divine inspiration. [Lat., Nemo vir magnus aliquo afflatu divino unquam fuit.]
Nature never sends a great man into the planet, without confiding the secret to another soul.
