Author: Henry David Thoreau (219.136.75.---)
Date: 12-01-05 22:27
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Information is the oxygen of the modern age. It seeps through the walls
topped by barbed wire, it wafts across the electrified borders.
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write,
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill\'d up his line,
Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.
Colour is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.
Teaching should be such that what is offered is perceived as a valuable
gift and not as a hard duty. -- Albert Einstein