I think it's clever how Rome have kept a load of old stuff. There's no overheads, yet people are going over there to see it.
Reptilian green the wrinkled throat, Green as a bough of yew the beard; He bent his head, and so I smote
The poet's first job of work is to put bread on the table.
And one rose in a tent of sea and gave A darkening shudder; water fell away; The whale stood shining, and then sank in spray.
Far out of sight forever stands the sea, Bounding the land with pale tranquillity.
The passion to condense from book to book Unbroken wisdom in a single look, Though we know well that when this fix the head, The mind's immortal, but the man is dead.
The rain of matter upon sense Destroys me momently. The score: There comes what will come.
Many say an art dealer running a museum is a 'conflict of interest. ' But maybe the art world has lived an artificial or unintentional lie all of these years when it comes to conflicts of interest.
I didn't tell him. And I never told her the whole truth. What would it matter? There was nothing she could do; nothing anyone can do or will do.
What a glorious title, Nature, a veritable stroke of genius to have hit upon. It is more than a cosmos, more than a universe. It includes the seen as well as the unseen, the possible as well as the actual, Nature and Nature's God, mind and matter. I am lost in admiration of the effulgent blaze of ideas it calls forth.
Ordinary is a word that has no meaning.