In the Serpent's Mouth by W.B. Yeats — Read

There is an old saying that God is a circle whose centre is everywhere. / If that is true, the saint goes to the centre, the poet and artist to / the ring where everything comes round again. The poet must not seek for / what is still and fixed, for that has no life for him; and if he did his / style would become cold and monotonous, and his sense of beauty faint / and sickly, as are both style and beauty to my imagination in the prose / and poetry of Newman, but be content to find his pleasure in all that is / for ever passing away that it may come again, in the beauty of woman, in / the fragile flowers of spring, in momentary heroic passion, in whatever / is most fleeting, most impassioned, as it were, for its own perfection, / most eager to return in its glory. Yet perhaps he must endure the / impermanent a little, for these things return, but not wholly, for no / two faces are alike, and, it may be, had we more learned eyes, no two / flowers. Is it that all things are made by the struggle of the / individual and the world, of the unchanging and the returning, and that / the saint and the poet are over all, and that the poet has made his home / in the Serpent's mouth?