What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.

Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.

From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged / In rambling talk with an image of air: / Vague memories, nothing but memories.

But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon.

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.

Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.