And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.

I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.

Many ingenious lovely things are gone / That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude.

Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.

Let the minor genius go his light way and enjoy his life - the great nature cannot so live, he is never really in holiday mood, even though he often plucks flowers by the wayside and ties them into knots and garlands like little children and lays out on a sunny morning.

All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it

I spit into the face of time that has transfigured me