What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?

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

Hammer your thoughts into unity.

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

Supreme art is a traditional statement of certain heroic and religious truth, passed on from age to age, modified by individual genius, but never abandoned.

Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.

That toil of growing up; The ignominy of boyhood; the distress Of boyhood changing into man; The unfinished man and his pain.