Today’s Quote Of The Day — Saturday, March 18th, 2023

Welcome to QuoteGreet’s quote of the day. Read and share our quote picks for today, Saturday, March 18th, 2023.

Today’s quote of the day is selected from categories of work, positivity, inspiration, humor, life, love, and short quotes.

Today’s quote of the day (Saturday, March 18th, 2023).

“A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort.” — Herm Albright

Check out the previous day’s quote of the day.

Saturday’s quote of the day for work

Today’s quote of the day for work.

“If you don’t want to work you have to work to earn enough money so that you won’t have to work.” — Ogden Nash

Positive Saturday quote of the day

Positive quotes of the day.

“We should learn not to hold grudges and be positive all the time because life is too short and unpredictable.” — Saba Qamar

Inspirational Saturday quote of the day

Inspirational quote of the day for today.

“Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared.” — Buddha

Funny quote of the day for Saturday

Today’s funny quote of the day.

“Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don’t always like.” — Lemony Snicket

Quote for today about life

Quote for today about life.

“The art of life is to know how to enjoy a little and to endure very much.” — William Hazlitt

Quote for today about love

Quote for today about love.

“Suffering passes, while love is eternal. That’s a gift that you have received from God. Don’t waste it.” — Laura Ingalls Wilder

Short quote of the day for Saturday

Short quote of the day for today (Saturday, March 18th, 2023).

“Attitude is everything, so pick a good one.” — Wayne Dyer

Poem of the day

Author: Joseph Addison

Title: A Letter From Italy

While you, my Lord, the rural shades admire,

And from Britannia’s public posts retire,

Nor longer her ungrateful sons to please,

For their advantage sacrifice your ease;

Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,

Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,

Where the soft season and inviting clime

Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.

For wheresoe’er I turn my ravish’d eyes,

Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,

Poetic fields encompass me around,

And still I seem to tread on classic ground;

For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung

That not a mountain rears its head unsung,

Renown’d in verse each shady thicket grows,

And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.

How am I pleas’d to search the hills and woods

For rising springs and celebrated floods!

To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,

And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source,

To see the Mincio draw his watery store

Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,

And hoary Albula’s infected tide

O’er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide.

Fir’d with a thousand raptures I survey

Eridanus through flowery meadows stray,

The king of floods! that rolling o’er the plains

The towering Alps of half their moisture drains,

And proudly swoln with a whole winter’s snows,

Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng,

I look for streams immortaliz’d in song,

That lost in silence and oblivion lie,

(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry)

Yet run forever by the Muse’s skill,

And in the smooth description murmur still.

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,

And the fam’d river’s empty shores admire,

That destitute of strength derives its course

From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source;

Yet sung so often in poetic lays,

With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;

So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme!

Such was the Boin, a poor inglorious stream,

That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray’d,

And unobserv’d in wild meanders play’d;

‘Till by your lines and Nassau’s sword renown’d,

Its rising billows through the world resound,

Where-e’er the hero’s godlike acts can pierce,

Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

Oh could the Muse my ravish’d breast inspire

With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,

Unnumber’d beauties in my verse should shine,

And Virgil’s Italy should yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile,

That shun the coast of Britain’s stormy isle,

Or when transplanted and preserved with care,

Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air.

Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments

To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents:

Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom,

And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume.

Bear me, some god, to Baia’s gentle seats,

Or cover me in Umbria’s green retreats;

Where western gales eternally reside,

And all the seasons lavish all their pride:

Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise,

And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

Immortal glories in my mind revive,

And in my soul a thousand passions strive,

When Rome’s exalted beauties I descry,

Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.

An amphitheatre’s amazing height

Here fills my eye with terror and delight,

That on its public shows unpeopled Rome,

And held uncrowded nations in its womb:

Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies,

And here the proud triumphal arches rise,

Where the old Romans’ deathless acts displayed,

Their base degenerate progeny upbraid:

Whole rivers here forsake the fields below,

And wondering at their height through airy channels flow.

Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires,

And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires;

Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown,

And softened into flesh the rugged stone.

In solemn silence, a majestic band,

Heroes and gods, the Roman consuls stand,

Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,

And emperors in Parian marble frown;

While the bright dames, to whom they humbly sued,

Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdued.

Fain would I Raphael’s godlike art rehearse,

And show th’ immortal labours in my verse,

Where from the mingled strength of shade and light

A new creation rises to my sight,

Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow,

So warm with life his blended colours glow.

From theme to theme with secret pleasure tossed,

Amidst the soft variety I’m lost:

Here pleasing airs my ravished soul confound

With circling notes and labyrinths of sound;

Here domes and temples rise in distant views,

And opening palaces invite my Muse.

How has kind Heaven adorned the happy land,

And scattered blessings with a wasteful hand!

But what avail her unexhausted stores,

Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores,

With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart,

The smiles of nature, and the charms of art,

While proud oppression in her valleys reigns,

And tyranny usurps her happy plains?

The poor inhabitant beholds in vain

The reddening orange and the swelling grain:

Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines,

And in the myrtle’s fragrant shade repines:

Starves, in the midst of nature’s bounty curst,

And in the laden vineyard dies for thirst.

Oh Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright,

Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!

Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,

And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train;

Eased of her load, subjection grows more light,

And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight;

Thou makest the gloomy face of Nature gay,

Givest beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.

Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia’s Isle adores;

How has she oft exhausted all her stores,

How oft in fields of death thy presence sought,

Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!

On foreign mountains may the sun refine

The grape’s soft juice, and mellow it to wine,

With citron groves adorn a distant soil,

And the fat olive swell with floods of oil:

We envy not the warmer clime that lies

In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,

Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,

Though o’er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine:

‘Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia’s Isle,

And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile.

Others with towering piles may please the sight,

And in their proud aspiring domes delight;

A nicer touch to the stretched canvas give,

Or teach their animated rocks to live:

‘Tis Britain’s care to watch o’er Europe’s fate,

And hold in balance each contending state,

To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war,

And answer her afflicted neighbours’ pray’r.

The Dane and Swede, rous’d up by fierce alarms,

Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms:

Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease,

And all the northern world lies hush’d in peace.

Th’ ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread

Her thunder aim’d at his aspiring head,

And fain her godlike sons would disunite

By foreign gold, or by domestic spite;

But strives in vain to conquer or divide,

Whom Nassau’s arms defend and counsels guide.

Fir’d with the name, which I so oft have found

The distant climes and different tongues resound,

I bridle in my struggling Muse with pain,

That longs to launch into a bolder strain.

But I’ve already troubled you too long,

Nor dare attempt a more advent’rous song.

My humble verse demands a softer theme,

A painted meadow, or a purling stream;

Unfit for heroes, whom immortal lays,

And lines like Virgil’s, or like yours, should praise.

See Also:

Today’s Quote Of The Day — Thursday, March 16th, 2023

Today’s Quote Of The Day — Wednesday, March 15th, 2023

Final thoughts

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