A Quote by Thomas Gray
Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade; Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
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Where'er you walk cool gales shall fan the glade, Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade. Where'er you tread the blushing flowers shall rise, And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
O'er hill and field October's glories fade;
O'er hill and field the blackbirds southward fly;
The brown leaves rustle down the forest glade,
Where naked branches make a fitful shade,
And the lost blooms of Autumn withered lie.
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.
If I had died it would have been even better for you political bratchnies, would it not, pretending and treacherous droogs as you are.' But all that came out was er er er.
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be.
Mensch kann tun was er will; er kann aber nicht wollen was er will. (One can choose what to do, but not what to want.)
The cloudlets are lazily sailing O'er the blue Atlantic sea; And mid the twilight there hovers A shadowy figure o'er me.
One sweetly solemn thought, comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home today, than I ever have been before.
Come o'er the sea, Maiden with me, Mine through the sunshine, storms and snows; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.
I'm a cleaner, a put-er away-er, an organizer of things.
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round, Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome at an inn.
I ne'er could any lustre see In eyes that would not look on me; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip But where my own did hope to sip.
Oh God love Susan Boyle. God love 'er. I've nothing more to say about Susan, except God love 'er and God bless 'er.
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be, In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.
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