Ah, let us kiss each other's eyes,/And laugh our love away.

O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.

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

I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.

Whence had they come The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived?

Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.

The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.