I Repeat, Whether We Be Italians Or

The Eye Of A Man Should Be Still More Reverent Before The Rising Of A Young Maiden Than Before The Rising Of A Star. The Possibility Of Touch Should Increase Respect. The Down Of The Peach, The Dust Of The Plum, The Radiated Crystal Of Snow, The Butterfly’s Wing Powdered With Feathers, Are Gross Things Beside That Chastity That Does Not Even Know It Is Chaste. The Young Maiden Is Only The Glimmer Of A Dream And Is Not Yet Statue. Her Alcove Is Hidden In The Shadows Of The Ideal. The Indiscreet Touch Of The Eye Desecrates This Dim Penumbra. Here, To Gaze, Is To Profane.

Toleration Is The Best Religion.

In The Animal World No Creature Born To Be A Dove Turns Into A Scavenger. This Happens Only Among Men.

Melancholy Is The Happiness Of Being Sad.

Children At Once Accept Joy And Happiness With Quick Familiarity, Being Themselves Naturally All Happiness And Joy.