I am moved by fancies that are curled <br>Around these images$$$ and cling: <br>The notion of some infinitely gentle <br>Infinitely suffering thing.

Let us take the air$$$ in a tobacco trance$$$<br>Admire the moments<br>Discuss the late events$$$<br>Correct our watches by the public clocks.<br>Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.

Culture is not enough$$$ even though nothing is enough without culture.

Because I do not hope to know again<br>The infirm glory of the positive hour<br>Because I do not think<br>Because I know I shall not know<br>The one veritable transitory power.

And the poet who fears to take the risk that what he writes may turn out not to be poetry at all$$$ is a man who has surely failed$$$ who ought to have adopted a less adventurous vocation.

Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think.

Your shadow at morning striding behind you<br>Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you.

And right action is freedom from past and future also.<br>For most of us$$$ this is the aim never to be realized. <br>Who are only undefeated because we have gone on trying.

The morning comes to consciousness.

I said to my soul be still$$$ and wait so the darkness shall be the light$$$ and the stillness the dancing.