Art is a mystery. A mystery is something immeasurable.

For surely as each November has its April, mysteries only are significant; and one mystery-of-mysteries creates them all: nothing false and possible is love (who's imagined,therefore limitless) love's to giving as to keeping's give; as yes is to if,love is to yes

I spill my bright incalculable soul

I'd rather have two good friends, than 500,000 admirers.

Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.

You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I.

O sweet spontaneous earth how often has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty thou answereth them only with spring.