But I am gifted, even in November. Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense. Of her nakedly worn magnificence. I forget cruelty and past betrayal, Careless of where the next bright bolt may fall.
Robert GravesAbout author
- Author's profession: Novelist, Poet
- Nationality: irish
- Born: July 26, 1895
- Died: December 7, 1985
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Is it not curious, that so vast a being as the whale should see the world through so small an eye, and hear the thunder through an ear which is smaller than a hare's? But if his eyes were broad as the lens of Herschel's great telescope; and his ears capacious as the porches of cathedrals; would that make him any longer of sight, or sharper of hearing? Not at all.—Why then do you try to "enlarge" your mind? Subtilize it
Herman Melville