The palace here, and there a virid mound, / Confine a flow'ry spot of grassy ground.

Tucked under offramps of the Henry Hudson Parkway, it sat undisturbed, protected by the anonymity of its location.

Sometimes people seem to read them as suggesting that God gave politics its own place, the one it occupies in their diarchical scheme, and that it should keep to that place.

The trouble with this book, however, is that he gazes so fixedly at himself that his own eyes dazzle a little. He is not an omphalosceptic. His gaze never turns downwards; it is kept obstinately at face-level.