The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream / His mind moves upon silence.
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.
Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.
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?