Fair maid, white and red, Comb me smooth, and stroke my head; And every hair a sheave shall be, And every sheave a golden tree.

Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

God in the whizzing of a pleasant wind Shall march upon the tops of mulberry trees.

Live or die, sink or swim.

My merry, merry, merry roundelay Concludes with Cupid's curse, They that do change old love for new, Pray gods, they change for worse!

His golden locks Time hath to silver turned, O time too swift! O swiftness never ceasing! His youth 'gainst Time and Age hath ever spurned, But spurned in vain! Youth waneth by increasing.

Parish me no parishes.

Westward Ho!

Let those who want to save the world if you can get to see it clear and as a whole. Then any part you make will represent the whole if it's made truly. The thing to do is work and learn to make it.

I don't learn so good, no matter how good the teacher is.

Don't you find that work, if you love it, is actually really invigorating?

There is a grandeur in this view of life, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful are being evolved

And Ive had vocal training on and off for years.

There is only one history of any importance, and it is the history of what you once believed in, and the history of what you came to believe in.

The small visual inconvenience of e-books is made up for with find and search functions, and the fungibility of digital text.

You would think the fury of aerial bombardment would rouse God to relent; the infinite spaces Are still silent. He looks on shock-pried faces. History, even, does not know what is meant.

The sea cries with its meaningless voice, Treating alike its dead and its living