Journalism is literature in a hurry.
Nature with equal mind sees all her sons at play sees man control the wind the wind sweep man away.
They who await no gifts from chance have conquered fate.
We forget because we must And not because we will.
Is it so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun to have lived light in the spring to have loved to have thought to have done?
Poetry a criticism of life under the conditions fixed for such a criticism by the laws of poetic truth and poetic beauty.
For rigorous teachers seized my youth, And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire, Show'd me the high, white star of Truth, There bade me gaze, and there aspire. Even now their whispers pierce the glo...
Use your gifts faithfully, and they shall be enlarged practice what you know, and you shall attain to higher knowledge.
This strange disease of modern life with its sick hurry its divided aims.