The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.
Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
Oh, who could have foretold That the heart grows old?
THE REALISTS Hope that you may understand! What can books of men that wive In a dragon-guarded land, Paintings of the dolphin-drawn Sea-nymphs in their pearly waggons Do, but awake a hope to live That had gone With the dragons?
O hiding hair and dewy eyes, I am no more with life and death, My heart upon his warm heart lies, My breath is mixed into his breath.
All art is, indeed, a monotony in external things for the sake of an interior variety, a sacrifice of gross effects to subtle effects, an asceticism of the imagination.
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.
Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; but make it hot by striking.
There is another world, but it is in this one.