When we have blamed the wind we can blame love.

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.

I made my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat But the fools caught it, Wore it in the world's eyes As though they'd wrought it. Song, let them take it, For there's more enterprise In walking naked.

All empty souls tend toward extreme opinions.

And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.

We are fastened to a dying animal.

Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?