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The new Forum may be found at http://booksliterature.com/ .
The former post was removed as it violated our user agreement, or it did not add to the "Great Books" conversation in a constructive manner.
In our ongoing effort to ensure quality discussions throughout our forums, 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".
To post please register at http://jollyroger.com/greatbooksforums or at JollyRogerWest.com Great Books Forums.
We prefer Shakespearean Sonnets, reflections on Space and Time, and posts along the lines of:
Things are pretty, graceful, rich, elegant, handsome, but, until they speak to the imagination, not yet beautiful.
LIV O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give. The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour, which doth in it live. The canker blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses. Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade; Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made: And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth. --William Shakespeare
It is our continuing goal to foster the world's greatest converstation.
In the future, please register and make all posts to http://jollyroger.com/greatbooksforums,
and/or join the forums Great Books & Philosophy Forums @ jollyrogerwest.com.
It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness. -Tolstoy, Leo
Best Regards,
William Einstein Shakespeare :)
XXXII If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bett'ring of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought, To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'. --William Shakespeare