I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.

Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.

Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.