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Quotes by S. Barry Cornwall
The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue; A string which hath no discord.— filed under Woman
Come, all ye feathery people of mid-air, Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain summits Lie down with the wild winds; and ye who build Your homes amidst green leaves by grottoes cool; And ye who on the flat sands hoard your eggs For suns to ripen, come!— filed under Benevolence
In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, The spectral Owl doth dwell; Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour, But at dusk-he's abroad and well! Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him- All mock him outright, by day: But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, The boldest will shrink away! O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl!— filed under Birds-Owl
Up and down! Up and down! From the base of the wave to the billow's crown; And amidst the flashing and feathery foam The Stormy Petrel finds a home, - A home, if such a place may be, For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, And only seeketh her rocky lair To warm her young and to teach them spring At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!— filed under Birds-Sea Bird
Hearing. Powers of Sound. Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.— filed under Echo
O, why has happiness so short a day.— filed under Happiness
The Hero as a Man of Letters. All round the room my silent servants wait, My friends in every season, bright and dim.— filed under Libraries
of Spring. March! A cloudy stream is flowing, And a hard, steel blast is blowing; Bitterer now than I remember Ever to have felt or seen, In the depths of drear December, When the white doth hide the green.— filed under Months-March
Wild Waves Saying? I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more.— filed under Ocean
The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.— filed under Ocean
Pity speaks to grief More sweetly than a band of instruments.— filed under Pity
So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be!— filed under Power
Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently, as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!— filed under Time
Music of Nature. How silent are the winds!— filed under Wind
Other Small Poems. The Sea in Calm. The moaning winds of Autumn sang their song.— filed under Wind
CRASHAW'S Epigram, Nympha pudica Deum vidit et erubuit. Sing! Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah, who is this lady fine? The Vine, boys, the Vine! The mother of the mighty Wine, A roamer is she O'er wall and tree And sometimes very good company.— filed under Wine And Spirits