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.

And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.

I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.

And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.

When such as I cast out remorse; So great a sweetness flows into the breast; We must laugh and we must sing, We are blest by everything, Everything we look upon is blessed.

O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.

Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold.