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One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain.

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
Hours
Happiness
Moment
Pain
Moments
May
Unnumbered
Repay
Bliss

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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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The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.
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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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What millions died that Caesar might be great!
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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 popularity of that baby-faced boy, who possessed not even the elements of a good actor, was a hallucination in the public mind, and a disgrace to our theatrical history.
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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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Where the Scriptures speak, we speak where the Scriptures are silent, we are silent.
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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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What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.
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Better be courted and jilted Than never be courted at all.
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For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.
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The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree.
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He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe.
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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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The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return.
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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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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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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 smaller your reality, the more convinced you are that you know everything.
Thomas Campbell