Hammer your thoughts into unity.

Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.

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

Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.

Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

What can I but enumerate old themes?

Many ingenious lovely things are gone / That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude.