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As I was going up the stairI met a man who wasn't thereHe wasn't there again todayI wish, I wish read more
As I was going up the stairI met a man who wasn't thereHe wasn't there again todayI wish, I wish he'd stay away. - The Psychoed.
Poetry must have something in it that is barbaric, vast and wild.
Poetry must have something in it that is barbaric, vast and wild.
The essay is a literary device for saying almost everything about almost anything.
The essay is a literary device for saying almost everything about almost anything.
The authority of those who teach is often an obstacle to those who want to learn.
The authority of those who teach is often an obstacle to those who want to learn.
The poets did well to conjoin music and medicine, because the office of medicine is but to tune the curious read more
The poets did well to conjoin music and medicine, because the office of medicine is but to tune the curious harp of man's body.
I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp read more
I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While read more
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,The matrons glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;These were thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms -- but all these charms are fled. - Deserted Village, The.
Literature is the thought of thinking Souls.
Literature is the thought of thinking Souls.
Oh you who are born of the blood of the gods, Trojan son of Anchises, easy is the descent to read more
Oh you who are born of the blood of the gods, Trojan son of Anchises, easy is the descent to Hell; the door of dark Dis stands open day and night. But to retrace your steps and come out to the air above, that is work, that is labor! - Aeneid, The.
