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.

All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.

Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.

Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun.

Who mocks at music mocks at love.

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember