It Kills Me To Be Time's Eunuch

It Is A Happy Thing That There Is No Royal Road To Poetry. The World Should Know By This Time That One Cannot Reach Parnassus Except By Flying Thither.

I Am All At Once What Christ Is, ' Since He Was What I Am, And This Jack, Joke, Poor Potsherd, ' Patch, Matchwood, Immortal Diamond, Is Immortal Diamond.

What Are Works Of Art For? To Educate, To Be Standards. To Produce Is Of Little Use Unless What We Produce Is Known, Is Widely Known, The Wider Known The Better, For It Is By Being Known That It Works, It Influences, It Does Its Duty, It Does Good. We Must Try, Then, To Be Known, Aim At It, Take Means To It. And This Without Puffing In The Process Or Pride In The Success.

Any Day, Any Minute We Bless God For Our Being Or For Anything, For Food, For Sunlight, We Do And Are What We Were Meant For, Madefor--things That Give And Mean To Give God Glory.

When I Compare Myself, My Being-myself, With Anything Else Whatever, All Things Alike, All In The Same Degree, Rebuff Me With Blank Unlikeness.