And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. . . . I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance - the revolt of the soul against the intellect.
How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?
A thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.
Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.
Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the leveling wind.