“Manticor in Arabia(The manticors of the montainesMighte feed them on thy braines.--Skelton.)Thick and scented daisies spreadWhere with surface dull like leadArabian pools of slime inviteManticors down from neighbouring heightTo dip heads, to cool fiery bloodIn oozy depths of sucking mud.Sing then of ringstraked manticor,Man-visaged tiger who of yoreHeld whole Arabian waste in feeWith raging pride from sea to sea,That every lesser tribe would flyThose armed feet, that hooded eye;Till preying on himself at lastManticor dwindled, sank, was passedBy gryphon flocks he did disdain.Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reignIn ancient keep of manticorAgreed old foe can rise no more.Only here from lakes of slimeDrinks manticor and bides due time:Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon treeMust mount his pyre and burn and beRenewed again, till in such hourAs seventh Phoenix flames to powerAnd lifts young feathers, overniceFrom scented pool of steamy spiceShall manticor his sway restoreAnd rule Arabian plains once more.”

“I really don’t think you should put your hand inside the manticore, dear. You don’t know where it’s been. —Enid Healy”

“The difference between you and her(whom I to you did once prefer)Is clear enough to settle:She like a diamond shone, but youShine like an early drop of dewPoised on a red rose petal.The dew-drop carries in its eyeMountain and forest, sea and sky,With every change of weather;Contrariwise, a diamond splitsThe prospect into idle bitsThat none can piece together.”

“To Juan at the Winter Solstice There is one story and one story onlyThat will prove worth your telling,Whether as learned bard or gifted child;To it all lines or lesser gauds belongThat startle with their shiningSuch common stories as they stray into.Is it of trees you tell, their months and virtues,Or strange beasts that beset you,Of birds that croak at you the Triple will?Or of the Zodiac and how slow it turnsBelow the Boreal Crown,Prison to all true kings that ever reigned?Water to water, ark again to ark,From woman back to woman:So each new victim treads unfalteringlyThe never altered circuit of his fate,Bringing twelve peers as witnessBoth to his starry rise and starry fall.Or is it of the Virgin's silver beauty,All fish below the thighs?She in her left hand bears a leafy quince;When, with her right hand she crooks a finger, smiling,How many the King hold back?Royally then he barters life for love.Or of the undying snake from chaos hatched,Whose coils contain the ocean,Into whose chops with naked sword he springs,Then in black water, tangled by the reeds,Battles three days and nights,To be spewed up beside her scalloped shore?Much snow if falling, winds roar hollowly,The owl hoots from the elder,Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup:Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward.The log groans and confesses:There is one story and one story only.Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling,Do not forget what flowersThe great boar trampled down in ivy time.Her brow was creamy as the crested wave,Her sea-blue eyes were wildBut nothing promised that is not performed.”

“Sorry to wake you, but we have to be somewhere soon, remember?"Ash grunted and, to my surprise, shifted to his back and put the pillow over his head. "I don't suppose I could convince you to go without me," he groaned, his voice muffled beneath the fabric. "Tell Mab I've been eaten by a manticore or something?”

“If a man couldn't escape what he came from, we would most of us still be peasants in Old World hovels. But, if, having escaped or not, he wants in some way to know himself, define himself, and tries to do it without taking into account the thing he came from, he is writing without any ink in his pen. The provincial who cultivates only his roots is in peril, potato-like, of becoming more root than plant. The man who cuts his roots away and denies that they were ever connected with him withers into half a man.”

“Call it a good marriage -For no one ever questionedHer warmth, his masculinity,Their interlocking views;Except one stray graphologistWho frowned in speculationAt her h's and her s's,His p's and w's.Though few would still subscribeTo the monogamic axiomThat strife below the hip-bonesNeed not estrange the heart,Call it a good marriage:More drew those two together,Despite a lack of children,Than pulled them apart.Call it a good marriage:They never fought in public,They acted circumspectlyAnd faced the world with pride;Thus the hazards of their love-bedWere none of our damned business -Till as jurymen we sat onTwo deaths by suicide.”