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| Hoyt & Roberts, comps. Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations. 1922. |
| Paradise |
| In the nine heavens are eight Paradises; Where is the ninth one? In the human breast. Only the blessed dwell in th’ Paradises, But blessedness dwells in the human breast. Wm. R. Alger—Oriental Poetry. The Ninth Paradise. | 1 |
| Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae bleak and bare, sae bleak and bare, The desert were a paradise If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Burns—Oh! Wert Thou in the Cold Blast. | 2 |
| In this fool’s paradise, he drank delight. Crabbe—The Borough Players. Letter XII. | 3 |
| Nor count compartments of the floors, But mount to paradise By the stairway of surprise. Emerson—Merlin. | 4 |
| Unto you is paradise opened. II Esdras. VIII. 52. | 5 |
| The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are open paradise. Gray—Ode on the Pleasure Arising from Vicissitudes. L. 53. | 6 |
| Dry your eyes—O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies. Keats—Fairy Song. | 7 |
| Mahomet was taking his afternoon nap in his Paradise. An houri had rolled a cloud under his head, and he was snoring serenely near the fountain of Salsabil. Ernest L’Epine—Croquemitaine. Bk. II Ch. IX. Hood’s trans. | 8 |
| A limbo large and broad, since call’d The Paradise of Fools to few unknown. Milton—Paradise Lost. Bk. III. L. 495. | 9 |
| So on he fares, and to the border comes, Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green, As with a rural mound, the champain head Of a steep wilderness. Milton—Paradise Lost. Bk. IV. L. 131. | 10 |
| One morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood disconsolate. Moore—Lalla Rookh. Paradise and the Peri. | 11 |
| A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness— Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow! Omar Khayyam—Rubaiyat, St. 12. FitzGerald’s trans. | 12 |
| The loves that meet in Paradise shall cast out fear, And Paradise hath room for you and me and all. Christina G. Rossetti—Saints and Angels. St. 10. | 13 |
| There is no expeditious road To pack and label men for God, And save them by the barrel-load. Some may perchance, with strange surprise, Have blundered into Paradise. Francis Thompson—Epilogue. St. 2. | 14 |
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