Our words must seem to be inevitable.

Man has created death.

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.

Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.

Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enameling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.

I am still of opinion that only two topics can be of the least interest to a serious and studious mood - sex and the dead.