The More The Marble Wastes, The More

As When, O Lady Mine, With Chiselled Touch, The Stone Unhewn And Cold, Becomes A Living Mould, The More The Marble Wastes, The More The Statue Grows.

Why Do You Send Fools To Judge My Work?

Nature Did All Things Well

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

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