I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember

How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?

For the good are always the merry, / Save by an evil chance,/ And the merry love the fiddle,/ And the merry love to dance: / And when the folk there spy me,/ They will all come up to me, / With,”Here is the fiddler of Dooney!” / And dance like a wave of the sea.

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.

Why should we honour those that die upon the field of battle? A man may show as reckless a courage in entering into the abyss of himself.

All empty souls tend toward extreme opinions.

An intellectual hate is the worst.