Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there. I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand. Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

Here's a song was never sung: Growing old is dying young.

That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.

Death devours all lovely things.

I drank at every vine, the last was like the first. I came upon no wine so wonderful as thirst.

I am not at all in favor of hard work for its own sake; many people who work very hard indeed produce terrible things, and should most certainly not be encouraged.