“T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.”

Source: The Passions, an Ode for Music (1747), Line 28.

Adopted from Wikiquote. Last update June 3, 2021. History

Help us to complete the source, original and additional information

Do you have more details about the quote "T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild." by William Collins?
William Collins photo
William Collins 19
English poet, born 1721 1721–1759

Related quotes

Samuel Johnson photo

“You see they'd have fitted him to a T.”

Samuel Johnson (1709–1784) English writer

1784
Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919), Life of Johnson (Boswell)

“I'm trustworthy and true and a whole of other positive words that start with T.”

Rob Payne (1973) Canadian writer

Source: Working Class Zero (2003), Chapter 11, p. 89

Harriet Beecher Stowe photo

“When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean
And billows wild contend with angry roar,
'T is said, far down beneath the wild commotion
That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.”

Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811–1896) Abolitionist, author

"Hymn".
Context: When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean
And billows wild contend with angry roar,
'T is said, far down beneath the wild commotion
That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.
Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth
And silver waves chime ever peacefully,
And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flyeth
Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea.

Abraham Lincoln photo

“[T]he wild lands of the country should be distributed so that every man should have the means and opportunity of benefitting his condition.”

Abraham Lincoln (1809–1865) 16th President of the United States

1860s, Speech to Germans at Cincinnati, Ohio (1861), Gazette version

Mary Mapes Dodge photo

“But when a snowflake, brave and meek,
Lights on a rosy maiden's cheek,
It starts—"How warm and soft the day!"
"'T is summer!" and it melts away.”

Mary Mapes Dodge (1831–1905) Children's writer, novelist, poet, editor

Snowflakes (1894).

George Gordon Byron photo
Anil Kumble photo
Anil Kumble photo
Richard Rodríguez photo

“Only a few weeks ago, in the year in which I write, Carl T. Rowan died. Hearing the news, I felt the sadness one feels when a writer dies, a writer one claims as one's own”

Richard Rodríguez (1944) American journalist and essayist

as potent a sense of implication as for the loss of a body one has known. Over the years, I had seen Rowan on TV. He was not, of course he was not, the young man who had been with me by the heater — the photograph on the book jacket, the voice that spoke through my eyes. The muscles of my body must form the words and the chemicals of my comprehension must form the words, the windows, the doors, the Saturdays, the turning pages of another life, a life simultaneous with mine.
It is a kind of possession, reading. Willing the Other to abide in your present. His voice, mixed with sunlight, mixed with Saturday, mixed with my going to bed and then getting up, with the pattern and texture of the blanket, with the envelope from a telephone bill I used as a bookmark. With going to Mass. With going to the toilet. With my mother in the kitchen, with whatever happened that day and the next; with clouds forming over the Central Valley, with the flannel shirt I wore, with what I liked for dinner, with what was playing at the Alhambra Theater. I remember Carl T. Rowan, in other words, as myself, as I was. Perhaps that is what one mourns.
Brown : The Last Discovery of America (2003)

Related topics