Charles Lamb Quotes

Night has brought to those who sleep, only dreams they can not keep.

What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story. And the greatest good is little enough; for all life is a dream, and dreams themselves are only dreams.

The melancholia of everything completed!

Out my window.. I see everything I dream about and wished I had

Life is but a web spun of ghosts and dreams and illusions.

Our treasures trifles seem, and all our life is dreaming, and the dreams themselves are dreams.

You may win your heart's desire, but in the end you're cheated of it by death.

Why live life from dream to dream, and dread the day when dreaming ends.

And in vain does the dreamer rummage about in his old dreams, raking them over as though they were a heap of cinders, looking into these cinders for some spark, however tiny, to fan it into a flame so as to warm his chilled blood by it and revive in it all that he held so dear before, all that touched his heart, that made his blood course through his veins, that drew tears from his eyes, and that so splendidly deceived him!

The world is little, people are little, human life is little. There is only one big thing — desire.

I have never waited for anything the way I've waited for today, when nothing will happen.

But if one's dreams having to come true was the only referendum on whether they were beautiful, or worth dreaming, well then, no one would wish for anything. And that would be so much sadder.

He knows that after him everything will continue on much as before, except that there will be a minuscule absence, a barely detective gap in the so-called grand scheme, one unit fewer now. Or not even that, not even an empty space where he once was, for all will rush immediately to fill that vacuum. Pft. Gone. Recollections of him will remain in the minds of others for a while, but presently those others too will die and his few relics with them. And then all will be dark.

I want to know what became of the changes we waited for love to bring/Were they only the fitful dreams of some greater awakening?

It's better sometimes when we don't get to touch our dreams.

Jump to the day we'll all be dead and none of this will matter. Jump to the day another house will stand here and the people living there won't know we ever happened.

When I waked, I cried to dream again

It is human life. We are blown upon the world; we float buoyantly upon the summer air a little while, complacently showing off our grace of form and our dainty iridescent colors; then we vanish with a little puff, leaving nothing behind but a memory - and sometimes not even that. I suppose that at those solemn times when we wake in the deeps of the night and reflect, there is not one of us who is not willing to confess that he is really only a soap-bubble, and as little worth the making.

I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled.

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.

You don't get nothing from sleep but a dream.

Sad that our finest aspiration, Our freshest dreams and meditations, In swift succession should decay, Like Autumn leaves that rot away.

In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.

Hair is gray and the firers are burning. So many dreams on the shelf. You say I wanted you to be proud of me. I always wanted that myself.