As The Strings Of A Lute Are

Art Arises When The Secret Vision Of The Artist And The Manifestation Of Nature Agree To Find New Shapes.

Miserable Is The Man Who Loves A Woman And Takes Her For His Wife, Pouring At Her Feet The Sweat Of His Skin And The Blood Of His Body And The Life Of His Heart, And Placing Her In The Hands Of The Fruit Of His Toil And The Revenue Of His Diligence; For When He Slowly Wakes Up, He Finds That The Heart That He Endeavored To Buy Is Given Away Freely And In Sincerity To Another Man For The Enjoyment Of Its Hidden Secrets And Deepest Love.

Love Passes By Us, Robed In Meekness; But We Flee From Her In Fear, Or Hide In The Darkness; Or Else Pursue Her, To Do Evil In Her Name.

As One's Gifts Increase, His Friends Decrease.

I Slept And I Dreamed That Life Is All Joy. I Woke And I Saw That Life Is All Service. I Served And I Saw That Service Is Joy.