Quotes About Innocence

UNSOPHISTICATEDI sing my merry songat first blush of daythis external peacetendered by the soft shadeof tidy clouds idly crossing places, a fresh note returns to mind:I am unsophisticated at heart.

I was eight years old and scared, and had no idea what was going on

The public has no power. The government knows I'm not a criminal. The parole board knows I'm not a criminal. The judge knows I'm not a criminal.

It is impossible to reign innocently.

What power is higher than the power of purity?

If national pride is ever justifiable or excusable it is when it springs, not from power or riches, grandeur or glory, but from conviction of national innocence, information and benevolence.

Power is something of which I am convinced there is no innocence this side of the womb.

If you would ask my mom what books I liked growing up, I liked Dr. Seuss.

One reason children are capable of joy is because they take almost nothing for granted.

It is better that ten guilty persons escape than that one innocent suffer.

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, The humble sheep a threatning horn: While the Lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

And I made a rural pen,And I stain'd the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.

Piping down the valleys wild,Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he laughing said to me:"Pipe a song about a Lamb."So I piped with merry cheer;"Piper, pipe that song again."So I piped; he wept to hear.

My mother groan'd! my father wept.Into the dangerous world I leapt:Helpless, naked, piping loud,Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:He is called by thy name,For he calls himself a Lamb.He is meek and he is mild;He became a little child.I a child, and thou a lamb,We are called by his name.Little Lamb, God bless thee!Little Lamb, God bless thee!

My mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black, but O! my soul is white;White as an angel is the English child,But I am black as if bereav'd of light.

When my mother died I was very young,And my father sold me while yet my tongueCould scarcely cry 'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

Little Lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Gave thee life and bid thee feedBy the stream and o'er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,Softest clothing, woolly, bright.

My mother groan'd, my father wept Into the dangerous world I leapt, Helpless, naked, piping load, Like a friend hid in a cloud.

All hatred driven hence,The soul recovers radical innocenceAnd learns at last that it is self-delighting,Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will.

Imagining in excited reverieThat the future years had come,Dancing to a frenzied drum,Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

The land of fairy, where nobody gets old and godly and grave, where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.