To deftly do what many dimly think;
To fund a feeling for the world to borrow;
To turn a tear to printer’s ink;
To make a sonnet of a sorrow.
— Edmund Vance Cooke
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More quotes by Edmund Vance Cooke
The man who fears to go his way alone,
But follows where the greater number tread,
Should hasten to his rest beneath a stone;
The great majority of men are dead.
The rake upon a wanton wastes the wiles
Which dazzle innocence.
The nettle guards itself; the lily smiles
Unheedful of defence.
The Moo-cow-moo's got a tail like a rope
En it's ravelled down where it grows,
En it's just like feeling a piece of soap
All over the moo-cow's nose.
This trouble seems to be
Chief in theology:
Each thinks the hymn should be,—
Nearer, my God, to Thee.
Death comes with a crawl or he comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow, or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only, how did you die?
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