Work Up Imagination To The State Of

Innate Ideas Are In Every Man, Born With Him; They Are Truly Himself. The Man Who Says That We Have No Innate Ideas Must Be A Fool And Knave, Having No Conscience Or Innate Science.

Poetry Fettered, Fetters The Human Race. Nations Are Destroyed Or Flourish In Proportion As Their Poetry, Painting, And Music Are Destroyed Or Flourish.

He Who Pretends To Be Either Painter Or Engraver Without Being A Master Of Drawing Is An Imposter.

Come O'er The Eastern Hills, And Let Our Winds Kiss Thy Perfumed Garments; Let Us Taste Thy Morn And Evening Breath; Scatter Thy Pearls Upon Our Love-sick Land That Mourns For Thee.

Desperate Remorse Swallows The Present In A Quenchless Rage.