A garden was the primitive prison, till man, with Promethean felicity and boldness, luckily sinned himself out of it.
A garden was the primitive prison, till man, with Promethean felicity and boldness, luckily sinned himself out of it.
Oh for a tongue to curse the slave Whose treason, like a deadly blight, Comes o'er the councils of the brave, And blasts them in their hour of might.
Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories