Come away, O human child: To the waters and the wild with a fairy, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.

A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.

Evil comes to us men of imagination wearing as its mask all the virtues.

I have believed the best of every man. And find that to believe is enough to make a bad man show him at his best, or even a good man swings his lantern higher.

And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

It seems that I must bid the Muse to pack, / Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend / Until imagination, ear and eye, / Can be content with argument and deal / In abstract things; or be derided by / A sort of battered kettle at the heel.