I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep.

Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart.

There is no God found stronger than death; and death is a sleep.

Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron, Shall a nation be moulded at last.

The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.

Change lays her hand not upon the truth.