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.

Fair and foul are near of kin And fair needs foul," I cried. "My friends are gone, but that's a truth Nor grave nor bed denied."

All empty souls tend toward extreme opinions.

Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.

It seems to me that true love is a discipline.

Life is a journey up a spiral staircase; as we grow older we cover the ground covered we have covered before, only higher up; as we look down the winding stair below us we measure our progress by the number of places where we were but no longer are. The journey is both repetitious and progressive; we go both round and upward.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.