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The poet's mind is in fact a receptacle for seizing and storing up numberless feelings, phrases, images, ...
which remain there until all the particles which can unite to form a new compound are present together.

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

The last temptation is the greatest treason
To do the right deed for the wrong reason

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

— Я новшества рад похвалить наперед,
И все-таки нынче театр не тот.

— Еще бы, викторианский закал!
А нынешних хоть бы кто натаскал —
Ни капли стыда у сопливых котят,
Сквозь обруч прыгнут и возомнят... —

Он — дьявол в образе кота, его вы не исправите.

And I am not in danger: only near to death.