My Mother Groaned, My Father Wept, Into

Does A Firm Persuasion That A Thing Is So, Make It So?" He Replied, "all Poets Believe It Does. And In Ages Of Imagination, This Firm Persuasion Removes Mountains; But Many Are Not Capable Of Firm Persuasion Of Anything.

Then My Verse I Dishonor, My Pictures Despise, My Person Degrade And My Temper Chastise; And The Pen Is My Terror, The Pencil My Shame; And My Talents I Bury, And Dead Is My Fame.

Wisdom Is Sold In A Desolate Marketplace Where None Can Come To Buy.

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.

For Mercy Has A Human Heart Pity, A Human Face: And Love, The Human Form Divine, And Peace, The Human Dress.