Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan.

Death's a fierce meadowlark: but to die having made / Something more equal to the centuries / Than muscle and bone, is mostly to shed weakness.

I've changed my ways a little, I cannot now Run with you in the evenings along the shore, Except in a kind of dream, and you, if you dream a moment, You see me there.

The love of freedom has been the quality of Western man.

You making haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains: shine, perishing republic.

Imagination, the traitor of the mind, has taken my solitude and slain it.

Justice and mercy/ Are human dreams, they do not concern the birds nor the fish nor eternal God.