rhetoric is will doing the work of imagination.

Whence had they come The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived?

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

Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?

The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

Mock mockers after that That would not lift a hand maybe To help good, wise or great To bar that foul storm out, for we Traffic in mockery.