How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.

Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk

I have read somewhere that in the Emperor's palace at Byzantium was a tree made of gold and silver, and artificial birds that sang.

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember

Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.

What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.

Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.