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Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of the day, spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay.

Thomas Campbell

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Thomas Campbell
Age: 66 †
Born: 1777
Born: July 27
Died: 1844
Died: June 15
Journalist
Musicologist
Poet
Writer
Glasgow
Scotland
Brother
Men
Worm
Pilgrim
Hail
Worms
Spouse
Clay
Thee

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An original something, dear maid, you would wish me to write but how shall I begin? For I'm sure I have not original in me, Excepting Original Sin.
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Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall be, the land of the free.
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A stoic of the woods,--a man without a tear.
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He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe.
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What millions died that Caesar might be great!
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Ye mariners of England! That guard our native seas Whose flag has braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze!
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Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind!
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For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.
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Beauty's witching sway is now to me a star that's fallen-a dream that's passed away.
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On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
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Fundamental assumptions in general and scientific assumptions in particular are so hard to overturn because they are based on belief. Beliefs are so hard to overcome because they are irrational and therefore do not yield to logical argument.
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Love! the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In life's else bitter cup distilled.
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On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
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The only thing that is fundamental (real) is consciousness itself all else is virtual- i.e., a result of an exchange of information within consciousness.
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Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a lovelorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing Wed or cease to woo.
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Where the Scriptures speak, we speak where the Scriptures are silent, we are silent.
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One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain.
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The smaller your reality, the more convinced you are that you know everything.
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The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.
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What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.
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