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

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

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

I agree about Shaw - he is haunted by the mystery he flouts. He is an atheist who trembles in the haunted corridor.

And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.

Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.

I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.