Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.

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

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?

Now as to magic. It is surely absurd to hold me "weak" or otherwise because I choose to persist in a study which I decided deliberately four or five years ago to make, next to my poetry, the most important pursuit of my life...If I had not made magic my constant study I could not have written a single word of my Blake book, nor would The Countess Kathleen have ever come to exist. The mystical life is the center of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.

Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.

I call on those that call me son, Grandson, or great-grandson, On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts, To judge what I have done. Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent?