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

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

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

Why should we honour those that die upon the field of battle? A man may show as reckless a courage in entering into the abyss of himself.

The night can sweat with terror as before We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, And planned to bring the world under a rule, Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.

Time can but make her beauty over again.

An intellectual hatred is the worst.