The golden line is drawn between winter and summer. Behind all is blackness and darkness and dissolution. Before is hope, and soft airs, and the flowers, and the sweet season of hay; and people will cross the fields, reading or… — Leigh Hunt Copy Share Image
Green little vaulter, in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole noise that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass. — Leigh Hunt Copy Share Image
Oh for a seat in some poetic nook, Just hid with trees and sparkling with a brook! — Leigh Hunt Copy Share Image
Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list,… — Leigh Hunt Copy Share Image
With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks To lie and read in, sloping into brooks. — Leigh Hunt Copy Share Image
We are violets blue, For our sweetness found Careless in the mossy shades, Looking on the ground. Love's dropp'd eyelids and a kiss,-- Such… — Leigh Hunt Copy Share Image
If you are melancholy for the first time, you will find, upon a little inquiry, that others have been melancholy many times, and yet… — Leigh Hunt Copy Share Image
Affection, like melancholy, magnifies trifles; but the magnifying of the one is like looking through a telescope at heavenly objects; that of the other,… — Leigh Hunt Copy Share Image
The person who can be only serious or only cheerful, is but half a man. — Leigh Hunt Copy Share Image
