The Great Tragedy Of The Average Man

The Atmosphere Breathes Rest And Comfort, And The Many Chambers Seem Full Of Welcomes.

Sculpture Is More Divine, And More Like Nature, That Fashions All Her Works In High Relief, And That Is Sculpture. This Vast Ball, The Earth, Was Moulded Out Of Clay, And Baked In Fire; Men, Women, And All Animals That Breathe Are Statues, And Not Paintings.

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting.

With Many Readers, Brilliancy Of Style Passes For Affluence Of Thought; They Mistake Buttercups In The Grass For Immeasurable Gold Mines Under Ground.

I Do Not Believe Anyone Can Be Perfectly Well, Who Has A Brain And A Heart