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Thursday, January 11, 2018

And art thou nothing?

Constancy to an Ideal Object:

Since all that beat about in Nature's range, 
Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain 
The only constant in a world of change, 
O yearning Thought! that liv'st but in the brain? 
Call to the Hours, that in the distance play, 
The faery people of the future day— 
Fond Thought! not one of all that shining swarm 
Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath, 
Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, 
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death! 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

ntodd

January 11, 2018 | Permalink

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