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Hail to thy returning festival, old Bishop Valentine! Great is thy name in the rubric, Thou venerable flamen of Hymen. . . . Like unto thee, assuredly, there is no other mitred father in the calendar. - Essays--Valentine's Day [Valentines] The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever. - Fancy employed on Divine Subjects (I, 1) [Fancy] Gone before To that unknown and silent shore. - Hester (st. 1) [Death] An album is a garden, not for show Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow. - In an Album to a Clergyman's Lady [Gardens] If dirt was trumps, what hands you would hold! - Lamb's Suppers (vol. II, last chapter) [Cleanliness] Books which are no books. - Last Essay of Elia--Detached Thoughts on Books [Books] I love to lose myself in other men's minds. When I am not walking, I am reading; I cannot sit and think. Books think for me. - Last Essays of Elia--Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading [Reading] Half as sober as a judge. - Letter to Mr. and Mrs. Maxon [Judges] A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game. - Mrs. Battle's Opinions on Whist [Cards] To pile up honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness. - On Ears [Sweetness] For with G.D., to be absent from the body is sometimes (not to speak it profanely) to be present with the Lord. - Oxford in the Vacation [Absence] A babe is fed with milk and praise. - The First Tooth, in Charles and Mary Lamb's "Poetry for Children" [Childhood] Suck, baby! suck! mother's love grows by giving: Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting! Black manhood comes when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. - The Gypsy's Malison, a sonnet in a letter to Mrs. Procter [Babyhood] Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? - The Old Familiar Faces [Friends] How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. - The Old Familiar Faces [Face] The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion. - The Sabbath Bells [Bells] Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity. - To V. Novello [Summer] Who first invented work, and bound the free And holyday-rejoicing spirit down . . . To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood? . . . Sabbathless Satan! - Work [Work] Displaying page 4 of 4 for this author: << Prev 1 2 3 [4]
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