Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.

You think it horrible that lust and rage Should dance attention upon my old age; They were not such a plague when I was young; What else have I to spur me into song?

Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enameling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.

BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there.