Farewell - farewell, For I am weary of the weight of time.

We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.

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!

How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?

It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.

Even when the poet seems most himself . . . he is never the bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast; he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.

Art bids us touch and taste and hear and see the world, and shrinks from what Blake calls mathematic form, from every abstract form, from all that is of the brain only.