And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
With out some kind of god, man is not very intresting
They don't understand what it is to be awake, / To be living on several planes at once / Though one cannot speak with several voices at once.
A book is not harmless merely because no one is consciously offended by it.
Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other Who think the same thoughts without need of speech
Yeats was the greatest poet of our times . . . certainly the greatest in this language, and so far as I am able to judge, in any language.