Opinions are made to be changed - or how is truth to be got at?
Opinions are made to be changed - or how is truth to be got at?
Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider.
On the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.
Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave.
Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister, William Knox. 1789-1825.
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo, The octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!
Oh, Amos Cottle! Phoebus! what a name!
O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
O Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land.
None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.