The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.

You think it horrible that lust and rage Should dance attention upon my old age; They were not such a plague when I was young; What else have I to spur me into song?

Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain- beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering.

The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.

When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.

Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.

O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.