The Mountain Sheep Are Sweeter, But The

Time Is Lord Of Thee: Thy Wealth, Thy Glory, And Thy Name Are His.

When Scythrop Grew Up, He Was Sent, As Usual, To A Public School, Where A Little Learning Was Painfully Beaten Into Him, And From Thence To The University, Where It Was Carefully Taken Out Of Him.

The Critic Does His Utmost To Blight Genius In Its Infancy; That Which Rises In Spite Of Him He Will Not See; And Then He Complains Of The Decline Of Literature.

I Like The Immaterial World. I Like To Live Among Thoughts And Images Of The Past And The Possible, And Even Of The Impossible, Now And Then.

... Where The Greeks Had Modesty, We Have Cant; Where They Had Poetry, We Have Cant; Where They Had Patriotism, We Have Cant; Where They Had Anything That Exalts, Delights, Or Adorns Humanity, We Have Nothing But Cant, Cant, Cant.