The Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.

I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above; those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.

We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love

Is it not certain that the Creator yawns in earthquake and thunder and other popular displays, but toils in rounding the delicate spiral of a shell? -Yeats, The Trembling of the Veil

Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.