I Was Never The Kind Of Painter

Dear To Me Is Sleep: Still More, Being Made Of Stone, While Pain And Guilt Still Linger Here Below, Blindness And Numbness--these Please Me Alone; Then Do Not Wake Me, Keep Your Voices Low.

Lord, Make Me See Thy Glory In Every Place.

A Great Sculpture Can Roll Down A Hill Without Breaking.

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.

Heaven-born, The Soul A Heavenward Course Must Hold; Beyond The World She Soars; The Wise Man, I Affirm, Can Find No Rest In That Which Perishes, Nor Will He Lend His Heart To Ought That Doth Time Depend