I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.

I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.

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.

The soul of man is of the imperishable substance of the stars!

Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.

All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?