On Commissary Goldie’s Brains
Lord, to account who dares thee call,
Or e’er dispute thy pleasure?
Else why, within so thick a wall,
Enclose so poor a treasure?
Man please thy maker and be merry set not for this world a cherry.
On Commissary Goldie’s Brains
Lord, to account who dares thee call,
Or e’er dispute thy pleasure?
Else why, within so thick a wall,
Enclose so poor a treasure?
Prosperity knits a man to the world. He feels that he is finding his place in it, while really it…
Religion can get on with any sort of astronomy, geology, biology, physics. But it cannot get on with a purposeless…
Why do writers write? Because it isn't there.