Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were; First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away--Is this the whole?
One hates an author that's all author.
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.