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

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?

And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

People are responsible for their opinions, but Providence is responsible for their morals.

Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.