but one loses, as one grows older, something of the lightness of one's dreams; one begins to take life up in both hands, and to care more for the fruit than the flower, and that is no great loss perhaps.

The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work And if it take the second must refuse A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?

Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun.

Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.

Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.

The night can sweat with terror as before We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, And planned to bring the world under a rule, Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.