A little sun, a little rain,
A soft wind blowing from the west,
And woods and fields are sweet again,
And warmth within the mountain's breast
A little love, a little trust,
A soft impulse, a sudden dream,
And life as dry as desert dust,
Is fresher than a mountain stream.
I would not live over my hours past . . . not unto Cicero's ground because I have lived them well, but for fear I should live them worse.
Life is a pure flame, and we live by an invisible sun within us.
The long habit of living indisposeth us for dying.
Whose life is a bubble, and in length a span.
Wm. Browne—Britannia Pastorals. Bk. I.
Song II.
| seealso = (See also Bacon)
| topic = Life
| page = 442
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>I know—is all the mourner saith,
Knowledge by suffering entereth;
And Life is perfected by Death.
E. B. Browning—Vision of Poets. St. 321.
Have you found your life distasteful?
My life did, and does, smack sweet.
Was your youth of pleasure wasteful?
Mine I saved and hold complete.
Do your joys with age chminish?
When min e fail me, I'll complain.
Must in death your daylight finish?
My sun sets to rise again.
Robert Browning—At the "Mermaid." St.
10.
I count life just a stuff
To try the soul's strength on.
Robert Browning—In a Balcony.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like mypeers,
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
Robert Browning—Prospice.
O Life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as II
Burns—Despondency.
O, Life! how pleasant is thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning!
Cold pausing Caution's lesson scorning,
We frisk away,
Like schoolboys, at the expected warning,
To joy and play.
Burns—Epistle to James Smith.
LIFE
Life is but a day at most.
Burns—Friars' Carse Hermitage.
Did man compute
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er
Such hours 'gainst years of life, say, would he
name threescore?
Byron—Childe Harold. Canto III. St. 34.
All is concentred in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being.
Byron—CAitae Harold. Canto III. St. 89.
| author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic = Life
| page = 442
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 15
| text = Through life's road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragged to three and thirty;
What have these years left to me?
Nothing, except thirty-three.
| author = Byron
| work = Diary. Jan. 22, 1821. In Moore's
Life of Byron. Vol. II. P. 414. First Ed.
Our life is two-fold; sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence.
| author = Byron
| work = Dream. St. 1. L. 1.
The dust we tread upon was once alive.
| author = Byron
| work = Sardanapalm. Act IV. Sc. 1. L. 66.
Life is with such all beer and skittles.
They are not difficult to please
About their victuals.
C. S. Calverley—Contentment.
| seealso = (See also Dickens, Hughes)
| topic = Life
| page = 442
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Heaven gives our years of fading strength
Indemnifying fleetness;
And those of Youth a seeming length,
Proportioned to their sweetness.
Campbell—A Thought Suggested by the New
Year.
A well-written life is almost as rare as a wellspent one.
Carlyle—Essays. Jean Paid Friedrich Richter.
There is no life of a man, faithfully recorded,
but is a heroic poem of its sort, rhymed or unrhymed.
Carlyle—Essays. Memoirs on the Life of
Scott.
One life;—a little gleam of Time between two
Eternities.
Carlyle—Heroes and Hero Worship. The
Hero as a Man of Letters.
| seealso = (See also Lillo)
| topic = Life
| page = 442
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>How many lives we live in one,
And how much less than one, in all.
Alice Cary—Life's Mysteries.
Bien predica quien bien vive.
He who lives well is the best preacher.
| author = Cervantes
| work = Don Quixote.
| place = VI. 19.
