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History is: Fables agreed upon - Voltaire The biography of a few stout and earnest persons - Ralph Waldo Emerson A vast Mississippi of falsehood - Matthew Arnold A confused heap of facts - Lord Chesterfield A cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man - Reason respects the differences, and imagination the similitudes of things. Reason respects the differences, and imagination the similitudes of things. Man who man would be, must rule the empire of himself. Man who man would be, must rule the empire of himself. Fear not for the future, weep not for the past. If winter comes, can spring be far behind? If winter comes, can spring be far behind? It is easier to suppose that the universe has existed from all eternity than to conceive a Being beyond its limits capable of creating it. As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic. First our pleasures die—and then Our hopes, and then our fears—and when These are dead, the debt is due, Dust claims dust—and we die too. Jealousy's eyes are green. I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight. See! the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea:— What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me? Soul meets soul on lovers' lips. Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. January grey is here, Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps—but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers. That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon. How many a rustic Milton has passed by, Stifling the speechless longings of his heart In unremitting drudgery and care! How many a vulgar Cato has compelled His energies, no longer tameless then, To mold a pin, or fabricate a nail! I consider poetry very subordinate to moral and political science. Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? How many a rustic Milton has passed by, Stifling the speechless longings of his heart, In unremitting drudgery and care! How many a vulgar Cato has compelled His energies, no longer tameless then, To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail! |