The visible world is no longer a reality and the unseen world no longer a dream.

Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.

Art bids us touch and taste and hear and see the world, and shrinks from what Blake calls mathematic form, from every abstract form, from all that is of the brain only.

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.

If soul my look and body touch, Which is the more blest?

O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.

Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.