It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.

Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.

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

Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Time can but make her beauty over again.

God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone.

And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.