I want to be a poet, from head to toe, living and dying by poetry.
They swayed about upon a rocking horse, And thought it Pegasus.
Failure is in a sense the highway to success, as each discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true.
A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
Life is but a day: A fragile dewdrop on its perilious way From a tree's summit
Drawing Dead is a brilliant noir from one of Australia's most exciting new novelists.
How strange that nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude!
Some relate. . . that the eagle tries the eyes of her young by turning them to the sun; which if they cannot look steadily on, she rejects them as spurious. We may truly try our faith by immediate intuitions of the Sun of Righteousness. Direct faith to act itself, immediately and directly on the incarnation of Christ and His mediation; and if it be not the right kind and race, it will turn its eyes aside to anything else.
Forget the floor plans. Arrange the furniture where it is the most comfortable and will look best.