Speech after long silence; it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead . . . That we descant and yet again descant Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song: Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young We loved each other and were ignorant.

The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.

Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.

My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.

What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?

We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.

The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.