We who write, we who bear witness, must often hear our hearts cry out against us, complaining because of their hidden things, and I know not but he who speaks of wisdom may sometimes, in the change that is coming upon the world, have to fear the anger of the people of Faery, whose country is the heart of the world --- 'The Land of the Living Heart.'W.B. Yeats, "Magic" (1901) [paragraph breaks mine]
Who can keep always to the little pathways between speech and silence, where one meets none but discreet revelations?
And surely, at whatever risk, we must cry out that imagination is always seeking to remake the world according to the impulses and the patterns in that Great Mind, and that Great Memory. Can there be anything so important as to cry out that what we call romance, poetry, intellectual beauty, is the only signal that the supreme Enchanter, or some one in His councils, is speaking of what has been, and shall be again, in the consummation of time?
Kinda spooky-sounding, but interesting, and likely a grain of truth in it.