What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?

Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?

Land of Heart's Desire Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.

We have fallen in the dreams the ever-living Breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world, And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh.

Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember

Man has created death.