I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'

There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.

Fair and foul are near of kin And fair needs foul," I cried. "My friends are gone, but that's a truth Nor grave nor bed denied."

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.

Myself I must remake.

God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone.

We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.