And history with all her volumes vast,Hath but one page.
Even to the delicacy of their handThere was resemblance such as true blood wears.
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
I want a hero: an uncommon want,When every year and month sends forth a new one.
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
And hold up to the sun my little taper.
Trade is 10 times as old as farming.
SUVs, why must they be so big? Americans need their space. Just ask the Indians.
Radical historians now the tell the story of Thanksgiving from the point of view of the turkey.
History: a collection of epitaphs.
We are the prisoners of history. Or are we?
Histories are a kind of distilled newspapers.
Everything begins in mysticism and ends in politics.
A history in which every particular incident may be true may on the whole be false.
And read their history in a nation's eyes.
Those who don't know history are destined to repeat it.
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