“My wind is turned to bitter north, That was so soft a south before.” — 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 Image
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 Image
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 Image
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 Image
Thou shalt not covet; but tradition approves all forms of competition. — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share Image
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 Image
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 Image
Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, When its so lucrative to cheat — Arthur Hugh Clough Copy Share Image
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 Image
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 Image
