This pleasant tale is like a little copse: The honied lines so freshly interlace, To keep the reader in so sweet a place, So that he here and there full-hearted stops; And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops Come cool and suddenly against his face, And, by the wandering melody, may trace Which way the tender-legged linnet hops. Oh! what a power has white Simplicity! What mighty power has this gentle story! I, that do ever feel athirst for glory, Could at this moment be content to lie Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings Were heard of none beside the mournful robins.
Swap the reels and hit replay. There is no now. There is no way. I can't escape my yesterday. But so what if I'm made of it, if it's no more then is there me? As absolute as future plans that you'll get to eventually.
True
