Author: Henry David Thoreau (85.195.119.---)
Date: 12-05-05 00:46
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If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'.
Today, if you invent a better mousetrap, the government comes along with a
A baby is an alimentary canal with a loud voice at one end and no
responsibility at the other.
Do not worry about your difficulties in Mathematics. I can assure you
mine are still greater. --Albert Einstein