Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the leveling wind.

In dreams begin responsibilitiy.

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.

My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.

We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love

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

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.