Literary Men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.

Literary Men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.

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.

I hold it true,what'er befall;I feel it, when I sorrow most;'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have read more

I hold it true,what'er befall;I feel it, when I sorrow most;'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all. - In Memoriam.

The universe is made up of stories, not of atoms.

The universe is made up of stories, not of atoms.

They castrate the books of other men in order that with the fat of their works they may lard their read more

They castrate the books of other men in order that with the fat of their works they may lard their own lean volumes.

At last is Hector stretch'd upon the plain,Who fear'd no vengeance for Patroclus slain:Then, Prince! You should have fear'd, what read more

At last is Hector stretch'd upon the plain,Who fear'd no vengeance for Patroclus slain:Then, Prince! You should have fear'd, what now you feel;Achilles absent was Achilles still:Yet a short space the great avenger stayed,Then low in dust thy strength and glory laid. - Iliad, The.

The philosophy exam was a piece of cake -- which was a bit of a surprise, actually, because I was read more

The philosophy exam was a piece of cake -- which was a bit of a surprise, actually, because I was expecting some questions on a sheet of paper.

The writing of a poem is like a child throwing stones into a mineshaft. You compose first, then you listen read more

The writing of a poem is like a child throwing stones into a mineshaft. You compose first, then you listen for the reverberation.

Just don't take any class where you have to read BEOWULF.

Just don't take any class where you have to read BEOWULF.