More! More! is the cry of a mistaken soul.
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
Everything is beautiful in its own way. Exuberance is beauty.
One Power alone makes a Poet: Imagination. The Divine Vision.
Wisdom is sold in a desolate marketplace where none can come to buy.
Man has no Body distinct from his Soul; for that called Body is a portion of Soul discerned by the five Senses, the chief inlets of Soul in this age.