With horror he perceived that, by uniting himself as he had with the dead, he had cut himself off from the living. Stripped of all earthly hope, bereft of every consolation, he was rendered as poor as mortal can possiblybe on this side of the grave.
Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
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Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
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Every artist takes their final work to the grave.
We must make time to reflect on life.Someday this life will be gone.
I'm already gone. I died that night on the side of that road with my sister.
Perfection isn't everything," she said as she turned and walked away. "I think the flaws are what make it perfect.
With her I'd buried myself, every memory of who I was now, six feet under with the sister I'd put there.