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

My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.

And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.

Bid imagination run / Much on the Great Questioner; / What He can question, what if questioned I / Can with a fitting confidence reply.

I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.

A mermaid found a swimming lad, Picked him up for her own, Pressed her body to his body, Laughed; and plunging down Forgot in cruel happiness That even lovers drown.

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.