There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine, The few, whom genius gave to shine Through every unborn age, and undiscovered clime.
A favorite has no friend
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight.
Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear.
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,The bee's collected treasures sweet, Sweet music's melting full, but sweeter yet. The still small voice of gratitude.
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far - but far above the great.
Ruin seize thee, ruthless King Confusion on thy banners wait Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.
'Tis folly to be wise.
Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
Thought would destroy their paradise.
Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain.
He passed the flaming bounds of space and time The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.
Too poor for a bribe and too proud to importune, he had not the method of making a fortune
Mark and I get pretty competitive sometimes. But I like to just get the ball to my receivers and let them make the plays. I trust them.
The language of the age is never the language of poetry, except among the French, whose verse, where the thought or image does not support it, differs in nothing from prose.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey.
The war was over, ... They were defeated by the time he dropped those bombs -- I think he wanted to know whether they would work. And I think Truman was the kind of guy when he disliked you, he disliked you with a passion.
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
What female heart can gold despise What cat's averse to fish
Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul