Being All Fashioned Of The Self-same Dust,

There's Nothing In This World So Sweet As Love. And Next To Love The Sweetest Thing Is Hate.

Love Is The Root Of Creation; God's Essence; Worlds Without Number Lie In His Bosom Like Children; He Made Them For This Purpose Only. Only To Love And To Be Loved Again.

Sculpture Is More Than Painting. It Is Greater To Raise The Dead To Life Than To Create Phantoms That Seem To Live.

Not Enjoyment, And Not Sorrow, Is Our Destined End Or Way; But To Act, That Each Tomorrow Find Us Farther Than Today.

As A Fond Mother, When The Day Is O'er, Leads By The Hand Her Little Child To Bed, Half Willing, Half Reluctant To Be Led, And Leave His Broken Playthings On The Floor. Still Gazing At Them Through The Open Door, Nor Wholly Reassured And Comforted By Promises Of Others In Their Stead Which, The More Splendid, May Not Please Him More; So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest So Gently, That We Go Scarce Knowing If We Wish To Go Or Stay, Being Too Full Of Sleep To Understand How Far The Unknown Transcends The What We Know.