We have fallen in the dreams the ever-living Breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world, And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh.

Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.

Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.

All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.

And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.