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

The night can sweat with terror as before We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, And planned to bring the world under a rule, Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.

Time can but make it easier to be wise / Though now it seems impossible, and so / All that you need is patience.

The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.

An intellectual hate is the worst.

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.