Maxioms by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the read more
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Morality without religion is only a kind of dead reckoning - an endeavor to find our place on a cloudy read more
Morality without religion is only a kind of dead reckoning - an endeavor to find our place on a cloudy sea by measuring the distance we have run, but without any observation of the heavenly bodies.
Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.
Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.
Even cities have their graves!
Even cities have their graves!
I should think your tongue has broken its chain.
I should think your tongue has broken its chain.
