Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.

Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.

The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away

What man does not understand, he fears; and what he fears, he tends to destroy.

Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enameling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Speech after long silence; it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead . . . That we descant and yet again descant Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song: Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young We loved each other and were ignorant.