No Thought Is Born In Me That

Art Is A Jealous Thing; It Requires The Whole And Entire Man.

I Live And Love In God's Peculiar Light.

There Is No Greater Harm Than That Of Time Wasted.

Led By Long Years To My Last Hours, Too Late, O World, I Know Your Joys For What They Are. You Promise A Peace Which Is Not Yours To Give And The Repose That Dies Before It Is Born. The Years Of Fear And Shame To Which Heaven Now Set A Term, Renew Nothing In Me But The Old Sweet Error In Which, Living Overlong A Man Kills His Soul With No Gain To His Body. I Say And I Know Having Put It To The Proof, That He Has The Better Part In Heaven Whose Death Falls Nearest His Birth.

No One Has Mastery, Before He Is At The End, Of His Art And His Life.