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

A mermaid found a swimming lad, Picked him up for her own, Pressed her body to his body, Laughed; and plunging down Forgot in cruel happiness That even lovers drown.

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.

I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.

Love comes in at the eye.

A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.