Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.

I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.

Like a long-legged fly upon the stream / His mind moves upon silence.

Whence had they come The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived?

When I think of all the books I have read, and of the wise words I have heard spoken, and of the anxiety I have given to parents and grandparents, and of the hopes that I have had, all life weighed in the scales of my own life seems to me a preparation for something that never happens.

Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.