A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

When two close kindred meet What better than call a dance?.

Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.

People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.