The alpha male is always willing to walk away.
I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night!
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
The poetical language of an age should be the current language heightened.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the Stooks arise Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behavior Of silk-sack clouds! Has wilder, willful-waiver Meal-drift molded ever and melted across skies?
Spring and Fall: To a Young Child Márgarét, are you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves, líke the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! ás the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you wíll weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sórrow's spríngs áre the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It ís the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.
When lovers of life get ready to dance, the earth shakes and the sky trembles.
I always brought up my children not to believe in Mothers Day gifts, and now I regret it.
God is back and Europe as a whole still doesn't get it. It is our biggest single collective cultural and intellectual blind spot.
There are no other Everglades in the world.