Myself I must remake.

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here's a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there's a politician That has read and thought, And maybe what they say is true Of war and war's alarms, But O that I were young again And held her in my arms!

There is only one romance the Soul's.

Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.

If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.

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.

Test every work of intellect or faith and everything that your own hands have wrought.