Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.

And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.

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.

Who mocks at music mocks at love.

Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.

People are responsible for their opinions, but Providence is responsible for their morals.

Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.