For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.

Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.

The golden guess is morning-star to the full round of truth.

Man is the hunter; women are the game; those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; they love us for it, and we ride them down.

Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand the downward slope to death.

For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.

Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? How many a father have I seen A sober man, among his boys Whose youth was full of foolish noise.