Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle, Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them? — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share Image
Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte Testaceo, Merelya marvellous mass of broken and castaway wine-pots. — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share
Old things need not be therefore true, O brother men, nor yet the new; Ah! still awhile the old thought retain, And yet consider… — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share
I watched them from the window, thy children at their play, And I thought of all my own dear friends, who were far, oh,… — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share
I sit at my table en grand seigneur , And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor; Not only the pleasure,… — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share
Thou shalt not covet; but tradition approves all forms of competition. — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share
Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle, Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with… — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share
Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been,… — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share
Come back again, old heart! Ah me! Methinks in those thy coward fears There might, perchance, a courage be, That fails in these the… — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share
And almost everyone when age, disease, or sorrows strike him, inclines to think there is a God, or something very like him. — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding… — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share
Action will furnish belief,-but will that belief be the true one? This is the point, you know. — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share
