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I'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.

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
Angry
Meet
Father
Raging
Skies
Rage
Sky

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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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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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The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.
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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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The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.
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O star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair?
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What millions died that Caesar might be great!
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Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art.
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One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain.
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For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.
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Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind!
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The smaller your reality, the more convinced you are that you know everything.
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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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He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe.
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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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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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The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree.
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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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What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.
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Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of the day, spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay.
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