The Poet's leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.
If the noun is good and the verb is strong, you almost never need an adjective.
All writers, I think, are to one extent or another, damaged people. Writing is our way of repairing ourselves.
I wear tweed jackets and button-down shirts. I am a 1955 graduate of Harvard University who drives a 1968 Mercedes.
I firmly believe that any good journalist must essentially be temperamentally an outsider. I don't think full sense of belonging and security is conducive to creativity.
Resistance to tyranny becomes the Christian and social duty of each individual… Continue steadfast and, with a proper sense of your dependence on God, nobly defend those rights which heaven gave, and no man ought to take from us.
This diagnosis can be done in about two lines. It doesn't engage anybody.
Implicit in the stare of those eyes, the power of those knobbly hands, was labor's historic threat of violence against capital.
Monks congregate like dogs in a kennel, From contact with their superiors they acquire knowledge, Is one the course of the wind, is one the water of the sea? Is one the spark of the fire, of unrestrainable tumult? Monks congregate like wolves, From contact with their superiors they acquire knowledge. They know not when the deep night and dawn divide. Nor what is the course of the wind, or who agitates it, In what place it dies away, on what land it roars.