Art Speaks Only To The Mind, Whereas

Unrequited Love Is As Different From The Mutual Love As The Error From The Truth.

It Is Sad, No Doubt, To Exhaust One's Strength And One's Days In Cleaving The Bosom Of This Jealous Earth, Which Compels Us To Wring From It The Treasures Of Its Fertility, When A Bit Of The Blackest And Coarsest Bread Is, At The End Of The Day's Work, The Sole Recompense And The Sole Profit Attaching To So Arduous A Toil.

A Day Will Come When Everything In My Life Will Be Changed, When I Shall Do Good To Others, When Some One Will Love Me, When I Shall Give My Whole Heart To The Man Whi Gives Ne His; Neanwhile, U Will Suffer In Silence And Keep My Love As A Reward For Him Who Shall Set Me Free.

Art Belongs To All Times And To All Countries; Its Special Benefit Is Precisely To Be Still Living When Everything Else Seems Dying; That Is Why Providence Shields It From Too Personal Or Too General Passions, And Grants It A Patient And Persevering Organization, Durable Sensibility, And The Contemplative Sense In Which Lies Invincible Faith.

Whoever Has Loved Once, Knows All That Life Contains Of Sorrow And Of Joy.