In me there dwells / No greatness, save it be some far-off touch / Of greatness to know well I am not great.

And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love, / The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill.

It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Sweet and low, sweet and low, / Wind of the western sea.

For a breeze of morning moves, / And the planet of Love is on high. / Beginning to faint in the light that she loves / On a bed of daffodil sky.

Beautiful city, the centre and crater of European confusion, / O you with your passionate shriek for the rights of an equal / humanity, / How often your Re-volution has proven but E-volution / Roll’d again back on itself in the tides of a civic insanity!

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; / He watches from his mountain walls, / And like a thunderbolt he falls.

God’s finger touched him, and he slept.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall…

Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris / Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved.