Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.
The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.
There is another world, but it is in this one.
Literature is always personal, always one man's vision of the world, one man's experience, and it can only be popular when men are ready to welcome the visions of others.
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.
The world being illusive, one must be deluded in some way if one is to triumph in it.
The visible world is no longer a reality and the unseen world no longer a dream.
While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.
And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.
Swift has sailed into his rest; Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveler; he Served human liberty.
...I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made...
All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it
For those that love the world serve it in action, Grow rich, popular, and full of influence; And should they paint or write still is it action, The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
It is love that I am seeking for, But of a beautiful, unheard-of kind That is not in the world.
I would that there was nothing in the world But my beloved that night and day had perished, And all that is and all that is to be, All that is not the meeting of our lips.
Because the priest must have like every dog his day Or keep us all awake with baying at the moon, We and our dolls being but the world were best away.
Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.
Art bids us touch and taste and hear and see the world, and shrinks from what Blake calls mathematic form, from every abstract form, from all that is of the brain only.