I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.

Come away, O human child: To the waters and the wild with a fairy, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

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

Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.

I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.