The World We Live In Is But

By Virtue Of This Science The Poet Is The Namer, Or Language-maker, Naming Things Sometimes After Their Appearance, Sometimes After Their Essence, And Giving To Every One Its Own Name And Not Another's, Thereby Rejoicing The Intellect, Which Delights In Detachment Or Boundary.

Every Mind Must Make Its Choice Between Truth And Repose. It Cannot Have Both.

Thou Art To Me A Delicious Torment.

Yet Time And Space Are But Inverse Measures Of The Force Of The Soul. The Spirit Sports With Time.

We Are A Puny And Fickle Folk. Avarice, Hesitation, And Following Are Our Diseases.