Richard Le Gallienne (20 January 1866 – 15 September 1947) was an English author and poet. The American actress Eva Le Gallienne (1899–1991) was his daughter, by his second marriage.
Though actually the work of man's hands - or, more properly speaking, the work of his travelling feet, - roads have long since come to seem so much a part of Nature that we have grown to think of them as a feature of the landscape no less natural than rocks and trees.
A woman's beauty is one of her great missions.
The spiritual element, the really important part of religion, has no concern with Time and Space, temporary mundane laws, or conduct.
Races and nations are thus ever ready to believe the worst of one another.
There’s too much beauty upon this earth For lonely men to bear.
Time's horses gallop down the lessening hill.
On the contrary, woman is the best equipped fighting machine that ever went to battle.
A wholesome oblivion of one's neighbours is the beginning of wisdom.
Youth, however, can afford to enjoy even its melancholy; for the ultimate fact of which that melancholy is a prophecy is a long way off.
Nature is forever arriving and forever departing, forever approaching, forever vanishing; but in her vanishings there seems to be ever the waving of a hand, in all her partings a promise of meetings farther along the road.
The beauty we love is very silent. It smiles softly to itself, but never speaks.
More and more the world is growing to love a lover, and one has only to read the newspapers to see how sympathetic are the times to any generous and adventurous display of the passions.
It is curious how, from time immemorial, man seems to have associated the idea of evil with beauty, shrunk from it with a sort of ghostly fear, while, at the same time drawn to it by force of its hypnotic attraction.
A critic is a man created to praise greater men than himself, but he is never able to find them.
All wines are by their very nature full of reminiscence, the golden tears and red blood of summers that are gone.
We have, of course, long since ceased to think of Nature as the sympathetic mirror of our moods, or to imagine that she has any concern with the temporal affairs of man.
There is something mean in human nature that prefers to think evil, that gives a willing ear and a ready welcome to calumny, a sort of jealousy of goodness and greatness and things of good report.
If Romeo and Juliet make a tragedy of it nowadays, they have only to blame their own mismanagement, for the world is with them as it has never been before, and all sensible fathers and mothers know it.
Wild oats will get sown some time, and one of the arts of life is to sow them at the right time.
We also maintain - again with perfect truth - that mystery is more than half of beauty, the element of strangeness that stirs the senses through the imagination.