If soul my look and body touch, Which is the more blest?

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

From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged / In rambling talk with an image of air: / Vague memories, nothing but memories.

An intellectual hatred is the worst.

And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.

Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.

That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations-at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unaging intellect.