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

Cuchulain stirred, Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard The cars of battle and his own name cried; And fought with the invulnerable tide.

This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.

The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all

For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.

Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon.

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.