Parks Are But Pavement Disguised With A

To Every Man It Is Decreed: Thou Shalt Live Alone. Happy They Who Imagine That They Have Escaped The Common Lot; Happy, Whilst They Imagine It.

The Mind Which Renounces, Once And For Ever, A Futile Hope, Has Its Compensation In Ever-growing Calm.

And Why Should Any Man Who Writes, Even If He Writes Things Immortal, Nurse Anger At The World's Neglect? Who Asked Him To Publish? Who Promised Him A Hearing? Who Has Broken Faith With Him? Your Poem, Your Novel, Who Bargained With You For It?

People Have Got That Ancient Prejudice So Firmly Rooted In Their Heads That One Mustn't Write Save At I The Dictation Of The Holy Spirit. I Tell You, Writing Is A Business.

To Like Keats Is A Test Of Fitness For Understanding Poetry, Just As To Like Shakespeare Is A Test Of General Mental Capacity.