terça-feira, dezembro 27, 2005
sexta-feira, dezembro 16, 2005
terça-feira, dezembro 13, 2005
Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
W. Wordsworth
Ode: Intimations Of Immortality From Recollections Of Early Childhood
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
W. Wordsworth
Ode: Intimations Of Immortality From Recollections Of Early Childhood
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