God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone. - William Butler Yeats

I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.

Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways: Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide; The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed, Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;

I that have not your faith, how shall I know That in the blinding light beyond the grave We’ll find so good a thing as that we have lost? The hourly kindness, the day’s common speech, The habitual content of each with each When neither soul nor body has been crossed.