The language of the age is never the language of poetry, except among the French, whose verse, where the thought or image does not support it, differs in nothing from prose.
The language of the age is never the language of poetry, except among the French, whose verse, where the thought or image does not support it, differs in nothing from prose.
There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine, The few, whom genius gave to shine Through every unborn age, and undiscovered clime.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories