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These forums are being phased out. The new, improved Prophets and Poetry Forum is at classicalpoetryforums.com.
The former post was deleted as it violated our user agreement, or it did not add to the "American History" conversation in a constructive manner.
The new Prophets and Poetry Forum may be found at http://classicalpoetryforums.com/forumdisplay.php?f=15 .
To foster quality discussion forums throughout Classicals.com, from now on only registered members may post. Spam will not be tolerated. If you would like to help moderate, please contact "jolly roger ship @ yahoo . com".
Please register at http://americanhistoryforums.com to post in the future.
We prefer deep reflections on American History, Philosophy, Shakespearean Sonnets, and tender musings along the lines of:
Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods. --Albert Einstein
CXLV Those lips that Love's own hand did make, Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate', To me that languish'd for her sake: But when she saw my woeful state, Straight in her heart did mercy come, Chiding that tongue that ever sweet Was us'd in giving gentle doom; And taught it thus anew to greet; 'I hate' she alter'd with an end, That followed it as gentle day, Doth follow night, who like a fiend From heaven to hell is flown away. 'I hate', from hate away she threw, And sav'd my life, saying 'not you'. --William Shakespeare
It is our continuing goal to foster the world's greatest converstation regarding all higher pursuits.
In the future, please register and make all posts to http://americanhistoryforums.com,
and/or join the forums at Great Books Forums @ jollyrogerwest.com.
Beauty in all things-no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it. -Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1940
All The Best,
William Einstein Shakespeare :)
XVI But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify your self in your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens, yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair, Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, Can make you live your self in eyes of men. To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. --William Shakespeare