To The Chief Musician Upon Nabla: A Tyndallic Ode (James Clerk Maxwell Poems)
I. I come from fields of fractured ice, Whose wounds are cured by squeezing, Melting they cool, but in a trice, Get warm again ...
I. I come from fields of fractured ice, Whose wounds are cured by squeezing, Melting they cool, but in a trice, Get warm again ...
In the very beginnings of science, the parsons, who managed things then,Being handy with hammer and chisel, made gods in ...
Ye British Asses, who expect to hearEver some new thing,I've nothing new to tell, but what, I fear,May be a ...
At quite uncertain times and places, The atoms left their heavenly path, And by fortuitous embraces, Engendered all that being hath. And though they ...
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