I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?

I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.

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

I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.

There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.

Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.