“A tramp, a gentleman, a poet, a dreamer, a lonely fellow, always hopeful of romance and adventure.”
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The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people. And so long as men die, liberty will never perish.
We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other's happiness, not by each other's misery.
The saddest thing I can imagine is to get used to luxury.
Why should poetry have to make sense?
