And see the peaceful trees extendtheir myriad leaves in leisured dance—they bear the weight of sky and cloudupon the fountain of their veins.

Whiteness of moonlight builds a house that is not there

For [W. B.] Yeats magic was not so much a kind of poetry as poetry a kind of magic, and the object of both alike was evocation of energies and knowledge from beyond normal consciousness.

I couldn't claim that I have never felt the urge to explore evil but when you descend into hell you have to be very careful.