And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here's a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there's a politician That has read and thought, And maybe what they say is true Of war and war's alarms, But O that I were young again And held her in my arms!

O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.

What can I but enumerate old themes?

Cuchulain stirred, Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard The cars of battle and his own name cried; And fought with the invulnerable tide.

I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.

There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.