Time turns the old days to derision, our loves into corpses or wives; and marriage and death and division make barren our lives.
A. C. Swinburne
Thou has conquered, O pale Galilean.
A. C. Swinburne
We shift and bedeck and bedrape us, thou art noble and nude and antique.
A. C. Swinburne
It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.