The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility. - John Keats

Real are the dreams of gods, and soothly pass their pleasures in a long immortal dream.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.