I Created A Vision Of David In

There Is No Tongue To Speak His Eulogy; Too Brightly Burned His Splendour For Our Eyes: Far Easier To Condemn His Injurers, Than For The Tongue To Reach His Smallest Worth. He To The Realms Of Sinfulness Came Down, To Teach Mankind; Ascending Then To God, Heaven Unbarred To Him Her Lofty Gates, To Whom His Country Hers Refused To Ope. Ungrateful Land, To Its Own Injury Nurse Of His Fate! Well Too Does This Instruct, That Greatest Ills Fall To The Perfectest. And 'midst A Thousand Proofs, Let This Suffice, That, As His Exile Had No Parallel, So Never Was There Man More Great Than He.

For Those Who Feel It, Nothing Makes The Soul So Religious And Pure As The Endeavor To Create Something Perfect; For God Is Perfection, And Whoever Strives After It, Is Striving After Something Divine. True Painting Is Only The Image Of The Perfection Of God, A Shadow Of The Pencil With Which He Paints, A Melody, A Striving After Harmony.

It Is Well With Me Only When I Have A Chisel In My Hand.

Your Greatness Is Measured By Your Horizons.

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.