Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.

Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.

It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is