Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuff and bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the sky.

Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuff and bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the sky.

Without poets, without artists... everything would fall apart into chaos. There would be no more seasons, no more civilizations, no more thought, no more humanity, no more life even; and impotent darkness would reign forever. Poets and artists together determine the features of their age, and the future meekly conforms to their edit.

I hate artists who are not of their time.

Joy came always after pain.

I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of the wanderer's death

Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.