When nations grow old, the Arts grow cold,
And Commerce settles on every tree.
When nations grow old, the Arts grow cold,
And Commerce settles on every tree.
If we are uncritical we shall always find what we want: we shall look for, and find, confirmations, and we…
The voice of a young man One sticks one's finger into the soil to tell by the smell in what…
Habit is a cable; we weave a thread of it each day, and at last we cannot break it.