Best 42 quotes of Robert Bulwer-lytton on MyQuotes

A fresh mind keeps the body fresh. Take in the ideas of the day, drain off those of yesterday. As to the morrow, time enough to consider it when it becomes today.

Alas! must it ever be so? Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go, And fight our own shadows forever?

Art is Nature made by Man, To Man the interpreter of God.

Be it jewel or toy, not the prize gives the joy, but the striving to win the prize.

Do not think that years leave us and find us the same!

Great sorrow makes sacred the sufferer.

Good -humor is goodness and wisdom combined.

Heaven's slow but sure redress of human ills.

However we pass Time, he passes still, Passing away whatever the pastime, And, whether we use him well or ill, Some day he gives us the slip for the last time.

I loved you ere I knew you; know you now, And having known you, love you better still.

In life there are meetings which seem Like a fate.

It is, however, not to the museum, or the lecture-room, or the drawing- school, but to the library, that we must go for the completion of our humanity. It is books that bear from age to age the intellectual wealth of the world.

Life hath set No landmarks before us.

Life is good, but not life in itself.

Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem.

No life can be pure in its purpose, and strong in its strife, and all life not be purer and stronger thereby.

No star ever rose or set without influence somewhere.

No true love there can be without Its dread penalty--jealousy.

Only by knowledge of that which is not thyself, shall thyself be learned.

Rest is sweet after strife.

Since we parted yester eve, I do love thee, love, believe, Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer,- One dream deeper, one night stronger, One sun surer,-thus much more Than I loved thee, love, before.

Sorrows humanize our race; tears are the showers that fertilize the world.

That man is great, and he alone, Who serves a greatness not his own, For neither praise nor self: Content to know and be unknown: Whole in himself.

That's best Which God sends. 'Twas His will: it is mine.

The man who seeks one thing in life and but one, May hope to achieve it before life is done; But he who seeks all things, wherever he goes, Only reaps from the hopes which around him he sows, A harvest of barren regrets.

There is a pleasure that is born of pain.

There is nothing certain in a man's life but that he must lose it.

There is purpose in pain; otherwise it were devilish.

There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back, and be forgiven.

The world is a nettle; disturb it, it stings. Grasp it firmly, it stings not.

The world is filled with folly and sin, And Love must cling, where it can, I say: For Beauty is easy enough to win; But one isn't loved every day.

They only fall, that strive to move, Or lose, that care to keep.

Truth makes on the ocean of nature no one track of light; every eye, looking on, finds its own.

Unseen hands delay The coming of what oft seems close in ken, And, contrary, the moment, when we say "'Twill never come!" comes on us even then.

We are but as the instrument of Heaven.

We are our own fates.- Our deeds are our own doomsmen.- Man's life was made not for creeds but actions.

We gain justice, judgment, with years, or else years are in vain.

We may live without friends; we may live without books But civilized men cannot live without cooks.

We may live without poetry, music and art; We may live without conscience, and live without heart; We may live without friends; we may live without books; But civilized man cannot live without cooks. . . . He may live without books,-what is knowledge but grieving? He may live without hope,-what is hope but deceiving? He may live without love,-what is passion but pining? But where is the man that can live without dining?

Whenever I hear French spoken as I approve, I find myself quietly falling in love.

Who can undo What time hath done? Who can win back the wind? Reckon lost music from a broken lute? Renew the redness of a last year's rose? Or dig the sunken sunset from the deep?

Who knows nothing base, Fears nothing known.