James Thomson Quotes

Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear.

The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night.

The City is of Night, but not of Sleep; There sweet Sleep is not for the weary brain; The pitiless hours like years and ages creep, A night seems term less hell.

As we rush, as we rush in the train, The trees and the houses go wheeling back, But the starry heavens above that plain Come flying on our track.

A little round, fat, oily man of God, Was one I chiefly marked among the fry: He had a roguish twinkle in his eye.

There studious let me sit, And hold high converse with the mighty dead.