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

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.

There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.

While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.

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?

I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.