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

A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.

All hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will

No art can conquer the people alone-the people are conquered by an ideal of life upheld by authority.

The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.

The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.

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