Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.

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.

What man does not understand, he fears; and what he fears, he tends to destroy.

I sat, a solitary man, In a crowded London shop, An open book and empty cup On the marble table-top. While on the shop and street I gazed My body of a sudden blazed; And twenty minutes more or less It seemed, so great my happiness, That I was blessed and could bless.

I have often had the fancy that there is some one Myth for every man, which, if we but knew it, would make us understand all he did and thought.

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.

For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.

A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought....

Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate, I find under the boughs of love and hate, In all poor foolish things that live a day, Eternal beauty wandering on her way.