It Matters Not How Strait The Gate,

Shakespeare And Rembrandt Have In Common The Faculty Of Quickening Speculation And Compelling The Minds Of Men To Combat And Discussion.

It Is The Artist's Function Not To Copy But To Synthesise: To Eliminate From That Gross Confusion Of Actuality Which Is His Raw Material Whatever Is Accidental, Idle, Irrelevant, And Select For Perpetuation That Only Which Is Appropriate And Immortal.

It Matters Not How Strait The Gate, How Charged With Punishments The Scroll; I Am The Master Of My Fate: I Am The Captain Of My Soul.

Between The Dusk Of A Summer Night And The Dawn Of A Summer Day, We Caught At A Mood As It Passed In Flight, And We Bade It Stoop And Stay. And What With The Dawn Of Night Began With The Dusk Of Day Was Done; For That Is The Way Of Woman And Man, When A Hazard Has Made Them One. Arc Upon Arc, From Shade To Shine, The World Went Thundering Free; And What Was His Errand But Hers And Mine - The Lords Of Him, I And She? O, It's Die We Must, But It's Live We Can, And The Marvel Of Earth And Sun Is All For The Joy Of Woman And Man And The Longing That Makes Them One.

[t]hey Stretch You On A Table. Then They Bid You Close Your Eyelids, And They Mask You With A Napkin, And The Anæsthetic Reaches Hot And Subtle Through Your Being.