The man of science is nothing if not a poet gone wrong.
The man or country that fights priestcraft and priests is to my mind striking deeper for freedom than can be struck anywhere.
I know him, February's thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.
She poured a little social sewage into his ears.
God's rarest blessing is, after all, a good woman!
Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars. Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold, And the great price we paid for it full worth: We have it only when we are half earth. Little avails that coinage to the old!