Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

In dreams begin responsibilitiy.

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.

Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.

We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.

I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.

Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.