II.Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again, And bring the firstling to the flock;...

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, sonnet 2 When forty winters shall besiege thy browAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held:Then being ask'd where all th...

?О, сколько нам открытий чудныхГотовят просвещенья духИ опыт, сын ошибок трудных,И гений, парадоксов друг,И случай, бог изобретатель?.А.С.Пушкин -------------A.S.Pushkin***As genius of enlightenment...