Land of lost gods and godlike men.
The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea.
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.