A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.

Everything in nature is resurrection.

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

Was it for this the wild geese spread The gray wing upon every tide; For this that all that blood was shed, For this. Edward Fitzgerald died, And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, All that delirium of the brave? Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.

For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.