I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.

Our words must seem to be inevitable.

The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.

Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

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

Time can but make her beauty over again.

Love is based on inequality as friendship is on equality.