There Can Be No Good Art That

I Made Man With Too Many Faults. Yet I Love Him. And If He Wishes, I Have A Home Above For Him.

Truth Is Far And Flat, And Fancy Is Fiery; And Truth Is Cold, And People Feel The Cold, And They May Wrap Themselves Against It In Fancies That Are Fiery, But They Should Not Call Them Facts; And, Generally, Poets Do Not; They Are Shrewd, They Feel The Cold, Too, But They Know A Hawk From A Handsaw, A Fact From A Fancy, As None Knows Better.

I Love People, But I Love The Thought And Memory Of Them Just As Much.

Love Is Not Love That Wounded Bleeds And Bleeding Sullies Slow. Come Death Within My Hands And I Unto My Love Will Go.

I Am Hungry To Be Interrupted For Ever And Ever Amen O Person From Porlock Come Quickly And Bring My Thoughts To An End.