Author: Henry David Thoreau (---.spacegate.com.ua)
Date: 01-13-06 06:27
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Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask\'d him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven\'s sun staineth.
As things are, and as fundamentally they must always be, poetry is not a career, but a mug\'s game. No honest poet can ever
feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: He may have wasted his time and messed up his life for
T. S. Eliot
Government is like a baby. An alimentary canal with a big appetite at one
end and no sense of responsibility at the other.
To draw, you must close your eyes and sing.
Pablo Ruiz y Picasso