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

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.

Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.

The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.

A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.

Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.