The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.

Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?

Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

I agree about Shaw - he is haunted by the mystery he flouts. He is an atheist who trembles in the haunted corridor.

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.

Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.