Henry Kirke White Quotes & Sayings

I, a Laconian dog, can bite again: Yes, I can make the Daunian tiger flee, Much more a bragging, foul-mouth'd whelp like thee. — Henry Kirke White

Who shall contend with time,
unvanquished time, the conqueror of conquerors and lord of desolation? — Henry Kirke White

The past is dead, and has no resurrection. — Henry Kirke White

Much in sorrow, oft in woe, Onward, Christians, onward go. — Henry Kirke White

Earthly pride is like the passing flower, that springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. — Henry Kirke White

Goodness, Time's rude hand defies,
And winter lives when beauty dies. — Henry Kirke White

When the day of misfortune comes and (comes it must sooner or later to all )we may be prepared with Christian fortitude to endure the shock. — Henry Kirke White

We should teach our children to make friends with us, to communicate all their thoughts to us ... by this we find many opportunities of teaching them important truths, almost without knowing. — Henry Kirke White

And care, whom not the gayest can outbrave, Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. — Henry Kirke White

Christianity is not a mere set of opinions to be embraced by understanding. It is the work of the heart as well as the head. — Henry Kirke White

So, on the eastern summit, clad in gray, morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes, and from his tower of mist night's watchman hurries down. — Henry Kirke White

To wind the mighty secrets of the past,
And turn the key of time. — Henry Kirke White

I do not like punishments. You will never torture a child into duty; but a sensible child will dread the frown of a judicious mother more than all the rods, dark rooms, end scolding school-mistresses in the universe. — Henry Kirke White

Poetry has been to me something more than amusement, it has been a cheering companion when I had no other to fly to, a delightful solace. — Henry Kirke White

Where now is Britain? . Even as the savage sits upon the stone That marks were stood her capitols, and hears The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks From the dismaying solitude. — Henry Kirke White