The language of the age is never the language of poetry, except among the French, whose verse, where the thought or image does not support it, differs in nothing from prose.
The language of the age is never the language of poetry, except among the French, whose verse, where the thought or image does not support it, differs in nothing from prose.
Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
To each his suff'rings all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan, The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies Thought would destroy their paradise. No more where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories