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

It seems to me that true love is a discipline.

And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.

I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

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.

Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.