The True Work Of Art Is But

Art Is A Jealous Thing; It Requires The Whole And Entire Man.

There Is No Tongue To Speak His Eulogy; Too Brightly Burned His Splendour For Our Eyes: Far Easier To Condemn His Injurers, Than For The Tongue To Reach His Smallest Worth. He To The Realms Of Sinfulness Came Down, To Teach Mankind; Ascending Then To God, Heaven Unbarred To Him Her Lofty Gates, To Whom His Country Hers Refused To Ope. Ungrateful Land, To Its Own Injury Nurse Of His Fate! Well Too Does This Instruct, That Greatest Ills Fall To The Perfectest. And 'midst A Thousand Proofs, Let This Suffice, That, As His Exile Had No Parallel, So Never Was There Man More Great Than He.

If In My Youth I Had Realized That The Sustaining Splendour Of Beauty Of With Which I Was In Love Would One Day Flood Back Into My Heart, There To Ignite A Flame That Would Torture Me Without End, How Gladly Would I Have Put Out The Light In My Eyes.

What Spirit Is So Empty And Blind, That It Cannot Recognize The Fact That The Foot Is More Noble Than The Shoe, And Skin More Beautiful Than The Garment With Which It Is Clothed?

The Greatest Danger For Most Of Us Is Not That Our Aim Is Too High And We Miss It, But That It Is Too Low And We Reach It.