I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without children, and what an inhuman world without the aged.
Samuel Taylor ColeridgeAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: english
- Born: October 21, 1772
- Died: July 25, 1834
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I am, yet what I am none cares or knowsMy friends forsake me like a memory lostI am the self-consumer of my woesThey rise and vanish in oblivious hostLike shadows in love's frenzied, stifled throesAnd yet I am, and live, like vapours tossedInto the nothingness of scorn and noiseInto the living sea of waking dreamsWhere there is neither sense of life or joysBut the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;Even the dearest, that I loved the bestAre strange - nay, rather stranger than the rest
John Clare
It was a strange staging for death, for the woman on the high bed was dying. Slowly, fighting every inch of the way with a grim tenacity, but indubitably dying. Her vital ardour had sunk below the mark from which it could rise again, and was now ebbing as water runs from a little crack in a pitcher.
John Buchan
But his political sense kept up a persistent itch that said: A, Given ignorance in the mix, stupidity was at least as common in politics as astute maneuvering; B, Crisis always drew insects; and, C, Inevitably the party trying to resolve a matter had to contend with the party most willing to exploit it.
C. J. Cherryh
