Art Still Has Truth. Take Refuge There.

Thou Waitest For The Spark From Heaven! And We, Light Half-believers Of Our Casual Creeds, Who Never Deeply Felt, Nor Clearly Will'd, Whose Insight Never Has Borne Fruit In Deeds, Whose Vague Resolves Never Have Been Fulfill'd; For Whom Each Year We See Breeds New Beginnings, Disappointments New; Who Hesitate And Falter Life Away, And Lose To-morrow The Ground Won To-day Ah! Do Not We, Wanderer! Await It Too?

On The Breast Of That Huge Mississippi Of Falsehood Called History, A Foam-bell More Or Less Is No Consequence.

They... Who Await. No Gifts From Chance, Have Conquered Fate.

Be Neither Saint Nor Sophist-led, But Be A Man.

Bald As The Bare Mountain Tops Are Bald, With A Baldness Full Of Grandeur.