Author: Henry David Thoreau (202.88.129.---)
Date: 03-22-06 21:57
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Where art thou Muse that thou forget\'st so long,
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend\'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my love\'s sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make time\'s spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,
So thou prevent\'st his scythe and crooked knife.
I never can feel certain of any truth but from a clear perception of its Beauty. -John Keats
People to whom nothing has ever happened cannot understand the unimportance of events.
T. S. Eliot
The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education.