The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all

Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than man, more image than a shade.

Everything we look upon is blest.

Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold.

The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.

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