The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick

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

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.

What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?

The world being illusive, one must be deluded in some way if one is to triumph in it.