Lord, Grant That I May Always Desire

My Beard Towards Heaven, I Feel My Nape Support / The Back Of My Head, I Grow The Breast Of A Harpy / And My Brush As It Drips Continually / Upon My Face, Makes It A Gorgeous Floor.

I Criticise By Creation, Not By Finding Fault.

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.

A Man Paints With His Brains And Not With His Hands.

The Goods Of Fortune, Even Such As They Really Are, Still Need Taste To Enjoy Them. It Is The Enjoying No The Possessing, That Makes Us Happy.