It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.

There is only one romance the Soul's.

Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.

The Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

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

It takes more courage to dig deep in the dark corners of your own soul and the back alleys of your society than it does for a soldier to fight on the battlefield.

I call on those that call me son, Grandson, or great-grandson, On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts, To judge what I have done. Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent?