You think it horrible that lust and rage Should dance attention upon my old age; They were not such a plague when I was young; What else have I to spur me into song?

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.

BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there.

I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.

O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.

Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enameling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Ah, let us kiss each other's eyes,/And laugh our love away.