Literature is a power to be possessed, not a body of objects to be studied.

Literature is a power to be possessed, not a body of objects to be studied.

We read poetry because the poets, like ourselves, have been haunted by the inescapable tyranny of time and death; have read more

We read poetry because the poets, like ourselves, have been haunted by the inescapable tyranny of time and death; have suffered the pain of loss, and the more wearing, continuous pain of frustration and failure; and have had moods of unlooked-for release and peace. They have known and watched in themselves and others.

The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While read more

The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,The matrons glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;These were thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms -- but all these charms are fled. - Deserted Village, The.

Time the great destroyer of other men's happiness, only enlarges
the patrimony of literature to its possessor.

Time the great destroyer of other men's happiness, only enlarges
the patrimony of literature to its possessor.

The decline in literature indicates a decline in the nation. The two keep pace in their downward tendency.

The decline in literature indicates a decline in the nation. The two keep pace in their downward tendency.

A great literature is chiefly the product of inquiring minds in revolt against the immovable certainties of the nation.

A great literature is chiefly the product of inquiring minds in revolt against the immovable certainties of the nation.

Oh you who are born of the blood of the gods, Trojan son of Anchises, easy is the descent to read more

Oh you who are born of the blood of the gods, Trojan son of Anchises, easy is the descent to Hell; the door of dark Dis stands open day and night. But to retrace your steps and come out to the air above, that is work, that is labor! - Aeneid, The.

Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.

Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.

Books are humanity in print.

Books are humanity in print.