All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.

That toil of growing up; The ignominy of boyhood; the distress Of boyhood changing into man; The unfinished man and his pain.

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 nothing more to give you than my heart. Spanish saying Hearts are not to be had as a gift hearts are to be earned.

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

I made my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat But the fools caught it, Wore it in the world's eyes As though they'd wrought it. Song, let them take it, For there's more enterprise In walking naked.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.