Top 10 Richard E. Burton Quotes at QuotationFun

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All Richard E. Burton Quotes

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He's not alone an artist weak and white, O'erbending scented paper toying there With languid fancies, fashioned deft and fair, Mere sops to time between the day and night. He is a poor torn soul who sees aright How far he fails of living out the rare Night-visions God vouchsafes along the air, Until the pain burns hot, beyond his might. The heart-beat of the universal will He hears, and, spite of blindness and disproof, Can sense amidst the jar a singing fine. Grief-smitten that his lyre should lack the skill To speak it plain, he plays in paths aloof, And knows the trend is starward, life divine.

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As threshing separates the wheat from the chaff, so does affliction purify virtue.

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A wealth of silence, that is all. The air Lacks life and holds no hint of tender spring, Of flowers wholesome-blowing, birds a-wing, Of any creature much-alive and fair. Perhaps you guess a murmur here and there Among the tomes, each book a gossip thing, And each in her own tongue, -yet slumbering Seems more the bookish fashion everywhere. And yet, could but the souls take flesh again That wrought these words, their hearts all passion-swirled, What companies would flock and fill the stage, Resuming now their old, imperious reign, Knight, noble, lady, priest, the saint, and sage, The valor, bloom, and wisdom of a world!

Wisdom

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Employment, which Galen calls 'nature's physician,' is so essential to human happiness that indolence is justly considered as the mother of misery.

Family, Happiness

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As the ivy twines around the oak, so do misery and misfortune encompass the happiness of man. Felicity, pure and unalloyed, is not a plant of earthly growth; her gardens are the skies.

Happiness

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We are the doubles of those whose way Was festal with fruits and flowers; Body and brain we were sound as they, But the prizes were not ours.

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Conquer thyself. Till thou hast done this, thou art but a slave; for it is almost as well to be subjected to another's appetite as to thine own.

Art

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I saw a picture once by Angelo,- "Unfinished," said the critic, "done in youth,"- And that was all, no thought of praise, forsooth! He was informed, and doubtless it was so. And yet I let an hour of dreaming go The way of all time, touched to tears and ruth, Passion and joy, the prick of Conscience's tooth Before that careworn Christ's divine, soft glow. The painter's yearning with an unsure hand Had moved me more than might his master days: He seemed to speak like one whose Mecca land Is first beheld, tho' faint and far the ways; Who may not then his shaken voice command, Yet trembles forth a word of prayer and praise.

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Sickness and disease are in weak minds the sources of melancholy; but that which is painful to the body, may be profitable to the soul. Sickness puts us in mind of our mortality, and, while we drive on heedlessly in the full career of worldly pomp and jollity, kindly pulls us by the ear, and brings us to a proper sense of our duty.

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Misery assails riches, as lightning does the highest towers; or as a tree that is heavy laden with fruit breaks its own boughs, so riches destroy the virtue of their possessor.

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