The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.

Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.

Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

Mysticism has been in the past and probably ever will be one of the great powers of the world, and it is bad scholarship to pretend the contrary. You may argue against it but you should no more treat it with disrespect than a perfectly cultivated writer would treat (say) the Catholic Church or the Church of Luther no matter how much he disliked them.

An intellectual hatred is the worst.