Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.

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.

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

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?

Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.