Nothing Is Real Beyond Imaginative Patterns Men

Joy And Woe Are Woven Fine.

How Sweet I Roamed From Field To Field, And Tasted All The Summer's Pride, Till I The Prince Of Love Beheld, Who In The Sunny Beams Did Glide!

Little Fly, Thy Summer's Play My Thoughtless Hand Has Brushed Away. Am Not I A Fly Like Thee? Or Art Not Thou A Man Like Me? For I Dance And Drink And Sing, Till Some Blind Hand Shall Brush My Wing!

The Difference Between A Bad Artist And A Good One Is: The Bad Artist Seems To Copy A Great Deal; The Good One Really Does.

Those Who Enter The Gates Of Heaven Are Not Beings Who Have No Passions Or Who Have Curbed The Passions, But Those Who Have Cultivated An Understanding Of Them.