Author: Henry David Thoreau (---.spacegate.com.ua)
Date: 01-13-06 07:30
<P>The former post was off topic and was thus removed as it was a violation of our
Great Books & Classics spirit. We are migrating to
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Please respect that these are Great Books sites, and we prefer posts along the following
So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirr\'d by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare\'
With sun and moon, with earth and sea\'s rich gems,
With April\'s first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven\'s air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother\'s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix\'d in heaven\'s air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
Politics I supposed to be the second-oldest profession. I have come to
realize that it bears a very close resemblance to the first.
<P>Twentieth-century art may start with nothing, but it flourishes by virtue of its belief in itself, in the possibility of
control over what seems essentially uncontrollable, in the coherence of the inchoate, and in its ability to create its own
T. S. Eliot<P><P>Is not marriage an open question, when it is alleged, from the beginning of the world, that such as are in the institution
wish to get out, and such as are out wish to get in? -- Ralph Emerson<P>