There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.
When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.
Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
What can I but enumerate old themes?
The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away
Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain- beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering.