By logic and reason we die hourly; by imagination we live.

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.

True love is a discipline in which each divines the secret self of the other and refuses to believe in the mere daily self.

The Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun Now I may wither into the truth.

Our words must seem to be inevitable.

Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.