Alphonse de Lamartine Quotes - Page 5

It is admirable to die the victim of one's faith; it is sad to die the dupe of one's ambition.

What mortal is there, over whose first joys and happiness does not break some storm, dispelling with its icy breath his fanciful illusions, and shattering his altar?

After his blood, that which a man can next give out of himself is a tear.

The attractiveness that exists to man in the very helplessness of woman is scarcely realized.

Ah! let us love, my Love, for Time is heartless, Be happy while you may!

Nature has given women two painful but heavenly gifts, which distinguish them, and often raise them above human nature,--compassion and enthusiasm. By compassion, they devote themselves; by enthusiasm they exalt themselves.

Enthusiasm is the intoxication of earnestness.

Unanimity is the mistress of strength.

My dog! the difference between thee and me knows only our Creator.

The death of a man's wife is like cutting down an ancient oak that has long shaded the family mansion. Henceforth the glare of the world, with its cares and vicissitudes falls upon the old widower's heart, and there is nothing to break their force, or shield him from the full weight of misfortune. It is as if his right hand were withered; as if one wing of his angel was broken, and every movement that he made brought him to the ground.

What is our life but a succession of preludes to that unknown song whose first solemn note is sounded by death?

If they say "you have your last chance to look at the world", I wish that look would from Çamlıca of Istanbul.

Man hath no Heaven and Time's coast is chartless. He speeds; we pass away!

It is in the habits of lawyers that every accusation appears insufficient if they do not exaggerate it even to calumny; it is thus that justice itself loses its sanctity and its respect amongst men.

And when night, guiding her bright train of stars, Throws o'er the sleeping world her gloomy veil, Lonely amidst the desert and the darkness, Musing upon the night's calm majesty; Wrapt up in quietness, with shade and silence, My soul more closely worshippeth Thy presence; With an internal day I feel enlighten'd, And hear a voice, which biddeth me to hope.

Private passions grow tired and wear themselves out; political passions, never.

Shall not this bygone Eden that we knew In our Eternal Life have shape and hue? For where Time is not shall not all Time be? In that calm breast whereto our souls are cleaving Shall we not find our loved ones beyond grieving About the hearth-stone of Eternity?

Soul of the universe, Sire, God, Creator, Lord, I believe in Thee, 'neath all these names: And without having need to hear thy word, In the sky's brow my glorious creed I trace.

But Nature too, shakes off her sleep today; By May's mild sun we see reviv'd her frame, Around my window Venus' birds proclaim, The month most cherish'd backwards bends his way!

I love the people because I believe in God. For, if I did not believe in God, what would the people be to me? I should enjoy at ease that lucky throw of the dice, which chance had turned up for me, the day of my birth; and, with a secret, savage joy, I should say, "So much the worse for the losers!--the world is a lottery. Woe to the conquered!

France is revolutionary or she is nothing at all. The revolution of1789 is her political religion.

History is neither more nor less than biography on a large scale.

Silence,--the applause of real and durable impressions.

Man is God by his faculty for thought.

Poets and heroes are of the same race, the latter do what the former conceive.