The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky And all that famous harmony of leaves Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

Why should the imagination of a man Long past his prime remember things that are Emblematical of love and war?

A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.

Had there been no Renaissance and no Italian influence to bring in the stories of other lands English history would, it may be, have become as important to the English imagination as the Greek Myths to the Greek imagination; and many plays by many poets would have woven it into a single story whose contours, vast as those of Greek myth, would have made living men and women seem like swallows building their nests under the architrave of some Temple of the Giants.

The soul of man is of the imperishable substance of the stars!

Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?

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.

Test every work of intellect or faith, And everything that your own hands have wrought And call those works extravagance of breath That are not suited for such men as come Proud, open-eyed and laughing to the tomb.

Death and life were not Till man made up the whole, Made lock, stock and barrel Out of his bitter soul