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Visitors since 11 August 2001

Poetry is what is lost
in translation.
It is also what is lost
in interpretation.

Wit and Wisdom

In search of wisdom, far from wit I fly;
Wit is a harlot beauteous to the eye,
In whose bewitching arms our early time
We waste, and vigour of our youthful prime.
But when reflection comes with riper years,
And manhood with a thoughtful brow appears;
We cast the mistress off to take a wife,
And, wed to wisdom, lead a happy life.

Ambrose Philips

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