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

Fair and foul are near of kin And fair needs foul," I cried. "My friends are gone, but that's a truth Nor grave nor bed denied."

Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.

The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.

I have believed the best of every man. And find that to believe is enough to make a bad man show him at his best, or even a good man swings his lantern higher.

Labor is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul, Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we know the dancer from the dance?

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?