We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love

No art can conquer the people alone-the people are conquered by an ideal of life upheld by authority.

We can make our minds so like still water that beings gather about us that they may see, it may be, their own images, and so live for a moment with a clearer, perhaps even with a fiercer life because of our quiet.

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

Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?