How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?

Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses.

Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.

We are fastened to a dying animal.

Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon.

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.

We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love