The living can assist the imagination of the dead.

The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.

Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.

There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.

Let the minor genius go his light way and enjoy his life - the great nature cannot so live, he is never really in holiday mood, even though he often plucks flowers by the wayside and ties them into knots and garlands like little children and lays out on a sunny morning.

I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.