I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.

Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk

Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain- beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering.

Land of Heart's Desire Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.

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

The living can assist the imagination of the dead.

Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses.