While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.

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.

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

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

Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.

There is only one romance the Soul's.