The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye; That's all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die.

A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.

And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.

The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary, Glass-mosaic, window-glass, Amended what was told awry By some peasant gospeler.

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.