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Awake, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master’s humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire

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Marilyn Monroe Paulo Coelho Abraham Lincoln C. S. Lewis Khalil Gibran Charlie Chaplin Gautama Buddha Isaac Newton

But what is woman? Only one of nature’s agreeable blunders.
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Nay, in death’s hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove’s.
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Fill the bowl with rosy wine, around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully awhile, like wine and roses, smile.
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I confess I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a little feast.
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Our yesterday’s to-morrow now is gone, And still a new to-morrow does come on. We by to-morrow draw out all our store, Till the exhausted well can yield no more.
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Thus would I double my life’s fading space;For he that runs it well, runs twice his race.
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Hope! fortune’s cheating lottery; when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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All this world’s noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.
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Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
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“We may talk what we please,” he cries in his enthusiasm for the oldest of the arts, “of lilies, and lions rampant, and spread eagles
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I never had any other desire so strong, and so like covetousness, as that
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Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetic variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Aeneas?
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When Israel was from bondage led,Led by the Almighty’s handFrom out of foreign land,The great sea beheld and fled.
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The world’s a scene of changes.
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And I myself a Catholic will be, So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets militant below.
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