The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

Art degraded, Imagination denied.

Down the winding cavern we groped our tedious way, till a void boundless as the nether sky appeared beneath us, and we held by the roots of trees and hung over this immensity; but I said: if you please we will commit ourselves to this void and see whether providence is here also.

And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds and binding with briars my joys and desires. (from 'The Garden of Love')

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit Or wilt thou go ask the Mole? Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod, Or Love in a golden bowl?

Those who restrain their desires, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.

The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest.