I Am The Spirit That Denies.

Our Passions Are True Phoenixes; As The Old Burn Out The New Straight Rise Up From The Ashes.

As In Rome There Is, Apart From The Romans, A Population Of Statues, So Apart From This Real World There Is A World Of Illusion, Almost More Potent, In Which Most Men Live.

You Can’t, If You Can’t Feel It, If It Never Rises From The Soul, And Sways The Heart Of Every Single Hearer, With Deepest Power, In Simple Ways. You’ll Sit Forever, Gluing Things Together, Cooking Up A Stew From Other’s Scraps, Blowing On A Miserable Fire, Made From Your Heap Of Dying Ash. Let Apes And Children Praise Your Art, If Their Admiration’s To Your Taste, But You’ll Never Speak From Heart To Heart, Unless It Rises Up From Your Heart’s Space.

The Angles Even Draw Strength From Gazing On Its Glance, Though None Its Meaning Fathom May; The World's Unwither'd Countenance Is Bright As At Creation's Day.

Does Not Man Lack The Force At The Very Point Where He Needs It Most? And When He Soars Upward In Joy, Or Sinks Down In Suffering, Is Not Checked In Both, Is He Not Returned Again To The Dull, Cold Sphere Of Awareness, Just When He Was Longing To Lose Himself In The Fullness Of The Infinite.