Henry Kirke White (21 March 1785 – 19 October 1806) was an English poet. He died at the young age of 21.
And care, whom not the gayest can outbrave, Pursues its feeble victim to the grave.
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.
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.
Goodness, Time's rude hand defies, And winter lives when beauty dies.
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.
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.
Much in sorrow, oft in woe, Onward, Christians, onward go.
Who shall contend with time,--unvanquished time, the conqueror of conquerors and lord of desolation?
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.
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.
Earthly pride is like the passing flower, that springs to fall, and blossoms but to die.
The past is dead, and has no resurrection.
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.
To wind the mighty secrets of the past, And turn the key of time.
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.